It's exactly what it implies.
There is something quietly magical and mysterious about the still, dark, winter night sky. It's just romantic, both in metaphor and in reality, but it's also nearly impossible to grasp. It seems always just out of reach and overwhelming in concept and in entirety, respectively. It makes me feel in full scope how wrong the world is or how wrong I am or just how inferior my human attempts at living life right are. In looking for a photo to go with this entry, I realized that the aurora borealis gives exactly the same kind of impressed emotion. That kind of surpressed feeling that makes you want to explode just to get out of your body, which makes you feel so momentarily trapped. It never lasts and it's so intriguing but it also so humbling that I just don't know what to do with it and then hustle in the house with girls as I realize I'm getting cold and have a handful of something (bags, stacks of books, leftovers from supper at Darlene's.) I'm really not on drugs. I've just never tried to explain this before.
It's what makes me the crazy, Latina, life-absorbing, miracle-observing chick that I am. But I find it no coincidence (or perhaps CrAzY coincidence altogether!) that the aurora, the stars, the sky--all of it--work together to woo me in this crazy, cold north living with a man who I wonder may have been in a dream I had before I even knew him. Yes, I know. That might be going too far...
But it begs the question: what if?
This dream is so old it's hard to believe I still think about it. Several years ago (thirteen or fourteen), I had a dream one night where the only details I remember are that it was in the middle of winter, the middle of the night, I was in a cabin that resembled the mobile home I used to live in, and several girls wandering around, all in some form of a white dress. (Pajamas? Smocks? Hard to say.) They were all just walking around, doing aimless tasks and I remembered wondering (a little self-righteously) what in the hell they were doing and what for.
Next I remember being across the living room and standing in front of the window. I remember looking out into the bitterly cold night, I remember wondering how cold it was, not wanting to find out, and I remember the sparkling, expansive, untouched blanket of snow on the field that stretched past the horizon. It was like I knew the air outside was unbearable and Arctic-like (being a girl from Wyoming), but was still standing super cozy and warm inside. In the meantime, I took in the dark, black-purple sky, riddled with stars and just stared, half breathless, into the midnight sky.
But I also remember that just as momentarily as I perceived cold, warmth, and wonderment, I perceived absolute desolation because there was nowhere to go and no way to get out. I wouldn't have known which direction to go and no one seemed interested in getting away anyway, seeing something new, experiencing life past this two-dimensional way of living. It was desperately lacking.
That's not all. If you've ever had to transition from experiencing pain to accepting it, you'll understand this next part. I realized how separated we were from other people and it felt instantly crushing. I actually felt physical pain. Somehow this translated into knowing I would never find love and the whole entire realization--of being cut off from the world and not getting the chance to experience true love (cheese alert!! cheese alert!!)--just killed me. I had to take this enormous sadness, accept it, and somehow turn it around.
The next thing I remember was holding the front door open for someone who, I guess, had come by in passing. It was a guy, a man, a tall, broad man, who barely fit the door frame and he was covered in furs all the way up to his eyes, eyes I couldn't see, but somehow captivated me through this jolt of electric energy that I couldn't perceive. Energy and connection that was beyond first or second impression, and I was amazed, incredulous, relieved, and inexplicably light-hearted at the thought of his presence. Yet he was right there in front of me and there was something about him, something about the way we connected, that I knew he was meant for me and I was meant for him. I woke up sad to leave the dream but with a smile for a sense of purpose.
It's so ooey-gooey (and it's SO me), but the overall purpose of the dream seemed bigger than me and all my gooey-eyed perceptions of romance or even life.
The point is, it stuck with me for a good long while and then it went away. After graduation and a few failed experiences, life went on and I got a real good dose of reality as I searched for jobs 7 months pregnant and moved on with homework, bottles, diapers, daycare, and concert rehearsals. I totally forgot about it.
Enter Kyle. And the world around me changed again. The way our relationship unfolded and the way he treated me made feel just like I did in that dream (the good part, that is.) Then that's when I remembered the dream. All the comparisons since then of my life with him always involve some kind of recollection of that dream. It makes me wonder--it has always made me wonder--if maybe there was purpose to that dream, purpose beyond my own agenda, divine intervention perhaps or if it was just that I wanted to relish in the coincidence so much that I subconsiously made it so.
I highly doubt the latter, no matter what the cynics believe. I don't need that dream to know what the beautiful inscription of Kyle in my life means or how blessed I am to have him in my life. I simply know that both the reality of Kyle in my life and the dream of someone very like him are connected. The comparisons will be left to a later entry.
02 February 2009
The phone really isn't that bad
I just read an old entry and, while I don't have time to write much here and now, I feel compelled to rectify certain emotions.
1. The phone isn't that bad. I have had, shall we say "hang ups" about getting on the phone, anxieties over dialing (yes, I am one of those), and overall negative experiences with others on the phone in my previous lives, but I am starting to learn how to use it, essentially, in a way that fits my personality and my life. All it took was a little getting used to and some growing up.
2. I was PMS-ing. The motherload of all excuses.
1. The phone isn't that bad. I have had, shall we say "hang ups" about getting on the phone, anxieties over dialing (yes, I am one of those), and overall negative experiences with others on the phone in my previous lives, but I am starting to learn how to use it, essentially, in a way that fits my personality and my life. All it took was a little getting used to and some growing up.
2. I was PMS-ing. The motherload of all excuses.
01 February 2009
Back to the G.I. Joes, an addition to Jan 31 entry
I say I was a tomboy by force. No one ever put a Lego gun to my head and told me to be, but being the only girl with two brothers, it only stood to reason that if I wanted to have someone to play with, I would have to play on their terms, with their rules, and their games. But I was still a girly-girl. Just ask my dad.
Did I mention they were younger? This had no bargaining value, no leverage. Whatsoever.
Usually Erik made the rules and Michael and I followed, but even before Michael was old enough to hang outside with us unattended, Erik was doing his own thing. This was not always the case, I admit, because there were many time I didn't want to get dirty or be bothered or play with Tonka trucks or Tinker Toys; OR because he was taking direction from his older sister. However, I do recall playing with G.I. Joes, Guns, hide and seek, MacGuyver, Hunter, and various other action-packed adventures because he refused to play Barbies, My Little Ponies, dress-up, and for the most part, House.
Lush sensuality
1. I was born in Laramie, Wyoming, USA and was primarily raised in Gillette, Wyoming where we moved when I was little. Both are in the east side of the state, Laramie in the south corner, Gillette in the north. I've never been to Yellowstone National Park.
2. I don't really have a favorite color because I don't ever want to have a house or closet full of purple, which would be the color of choice. But then I wouldn't want a house or closet full of red, either, or chocolate brown, black, blue, green, which are all really great colors,too, that are rich and attractive and that I like just as much. Too many options to have too much of one thing and variety is the spice of life. It's not a standard rule, but it does stem from my beliefs in balance.
3. I was a single mom for a year--only a year--but I was 18 and will never forget it because I didn't know a thing about anything and it came before everything else, including all the other things I would ever become in my life. I played single mom again when Kyle was sick with cancer for 6 months and again later when he took a year off of teaching and had to work out of town. So even though my life is great now, it wasn't always so.
4. I was in a horrible accident with my then-fiance (Kyle) and my then-year-old (Aurora) where I fell asleep at the wheel trying to drive overnight back home, hit a reflector pole, overcorrected one too many times, and sent us rolling into the median of the highway. According to the police report, I hit the reflector pole, swerved, over-corrected twice, and rolled the vehicle a number of times before coming to a stop on the roof. Aurora was ejected out the back, but miraculously--MIRACULOUSLY--escaped with a bruise on her jaw and a bruise on her collar bone. She was released from the hospital within hours. Kyle was beat up horribly, with pulled back muscles, ridiculously blood-shot and blackened eyes. He was released in a few hours. I was in ICU for three days with concussion. My dad said I looked like an alien. I don't remember ANY of it. Did I mention I was driving a Geo Tracker?
5. The guilt from the afore-mentioned accident on ALL sides of realization ate at me for a very long time. It took a long, long time to "sober" up, get my brain back, start remembering things, and I was a very different person after that. Very combative. Not myself.
6. I have a big freckle on my big toe. It's been there since birth.
7. I don't grow my nails out. I am always clipping them because I hate the feeling of click-click on piano/keyboard keys, the scratching when they connect with a surface, and when they start tearing at the tips.
8. I love to laugh. I love stupid comedy, dry humour, jokes that involve reaction and I will laugh primarily at reactions that have less to do with the joke content than people's faces.
9. I use tanning beds.
10. I think confession is good for the soul.
11. I talk too much and too fast.
12. I can operate heavy equipment, operated a full-scale gravel crusher, and shovel like a b****.
13. I can drive a standard transmission.
14. I rebuilt my bathroom downstairs from scratch after we had water in the subfloor and had to gut it out. I'd like to say I did it all myself, but a friend with more knowledge than me helped.
15. I really, really, really like my computer. I don't go to bed without spending WAY more time on it than I should.
16. I know how to play bassoon and used to be pretty good at it.
17. I like to belt out the tunes if there is noise that can kind of hide it and I stop when the noise stops. I used to sing full force when I worked at the crusher because nobody could hear me over the generator, the conveyor belts, the motors, the noise, and overall crunching and crushing of boulders. But sometimes I like to hear my voice in resonating in a building. Like the bathroom or the restauarant I work at that has a vaulted ceiling or big churches.
18. I put a rock through a picture window the summer after 8th grade because I befriended a girl who stole cars. The police came driving around and we somehow managed to avoid getting caught by laying in a field of grass taller than us for three hours.
19. I'm a Gemini.
20. I danced the Jarabe Tapatio with my dad when I was in high school for the Cinco de Mayo night the school put on. It was the unofficial official version of the regional dance of Jalisco, the state where he is from. It is, more or less, the Mexican Hat Dance. I still have the dress. I still hope to dance it again some day.
21. I speak Spanish. My dad is Mexican. I have Mexican family that I can talk to, but don't often.
22. My mom is Norwegian. She does not speak Norwegian. Nor do I.
23. I was in Girl Scouts from grade 1 to grade 8. It's really, REALLY not cool to be a Girl Scout in junior high.
24. I got out of an algebra test in college to get married. I wore my best friend's clothes and tied a bow in my hair. In 1999.
25. My computer is about to die. So I'm posting this and logging off.
31 January 2009
Pink foam curlers and G.I. Joes
I had foam curlers that you had to clasp on one end after rolling wet hair onto it. (You, as in the general you, not the boy 'you' because boys don't curl their hair, so I guess I mean the general GIRL 'you', in which case I should have just wrote 'girls', instead of 'you', but I am not wanting to offend boys who DO curl their hair, because maybe, I don't know, there are a few of those out there, and there is such a high likelihood that they would read this.)
Back to the foam, here. They were pink. The cylindrical foam that you wrapped the hair around and the plastic clasp that framed the foam and connected at the one end were pink. I put a ton (okay, well maybe not a TON) of them in my hair one afternoon in the hopes that I could put a luscious and luxurious body of curls into my otherwise normally straight (bland, blah, brown) hair. I had entire afternoon to waste. I had time to let my hair dry.
In the meantime and without a hair dryer (without? or absent-minded enough to not think of using one? hmmm...) I started to lip sync with the radio. Joan Jett came on and I poured my ever-lovin', rockin' heart out into her lyrics. "I hate myself for lovin' youuuuu!...." On the bed, crouching down, hopping off, microphone (brush) in hand. Performing to a huge, sold-out crowd (ten or fifteen stuffed animals) on a well-lit stage (pastel-colored bed.) I caught a glimpse of myself in the tiny vanity on my desk coming down on a beat, mid-angst-cringe. I was absolutely horrified to see the pink curlers flopping against my angry face, sickly pale and splattered with freckles and brown eyes that I couldn't get away from.
I stopped. Party over. Total rocker kill.
But it passed. I rocked it out to the end, I took my curlers out, and looked something more like this.
Back to the foam, here. They were pink. The cylindrical foam that you wrapped the hair around and the plastic clasp that framed the foam and connected at the one end were pink. I put a ton (okay, well maybe not a TON) of them in my hair one afternoon in the hopes that I could put a luscious and luxurious body of curls into my otherwise normally straight (bland, blah, brown) hair. I had entire afternoon to waste. I had time to let my hair dry.
In the meantime and without a hair dryer (without? or absent-minded enough to not think of using one? hmmm...) I started to lip sync with the radio. Joan Jett came on and I poured my ever-lovin', rockin' heart out into her lyrics. "I hate myself for lovin' youuuuu!...." On the bed, crouching down, hopping off, microphone (brush) in hand. Performing to a huge, sold-out crowd (ten or fifteen stuffed animals) on a well-lit stage (pastel-colored bed.) I caught a glimpse of myself in the tiny vanity on my desk coming down on a beat, mid-angst-cringe. I was absolutely horrified to see the pink curlers flopping against my angry face, sickly pale and splattered with freckles and brown eyes that I couldn't get away from.
I stopped. Party over. Total rocker kill.
But it passed. I rocked it out to the end, I took my curlers out, and looked something more like this.
30 January 2009
Batman Returns: my first date
Once upon a time, there lived a girl...
So once when I was 13, I had a real date. My first, out-of-the house, to-the-movies date. It was Batman Returns. Not real romantic by all wooing standards, but I didn't care. I could tell someone I "went on a date."
There was a catch, though. His mom had to go with us.
It was not MY idea of a good date, even though I sympathized with both mothers, but I guess neither my date or I had a lot of say in the matter since we needed her to get us to the movie. In the end, there was no win-win because she had to watch all the penguin blood come out of Danny Devito's mouth in the final scenes of the graphic novel-come-animation.
We never went on another date, but I'd look for every reason to call him on the phone or meet up with him when our parents met for boy scout meetings. I didn't really like him ALL that much. He was a year older, kind of dorky but kind of cute, and went to a different school. I was just, well, boy crazy. He ended up losing interest and I ended up getting sick of his "would you rather die being hanged or sliding down a razor and into a bucket of iodine" level of conversations. They were topics better left to all his dorky friends.
Let me back up a bit by explaining that I met this kid getting ready for the annual Boy Scout Day Camp that involved cartloads of projects: handyman, craftyman, applied sciences, and the like. Three days worth of activities that would keep every age and every level of boys' hands and mind busy, but that also need prepping. This is where CG comes in. CG had a Dremel with which he was carving notches out of wood pieces that would become tie slides. I, as the daughter of two active Cub Scout leader parents, did the dutiful thing by coming into all the pre-planning meetings and helped. So I picked up a Dremel, started carving notches, and struck up a conversation. This has always been my style.
Except I missed after about the hundredth piece of wood and ended up Dremeling off some skin. I washed it off, pressed a towel to the wound, and retired from notch-making. A few weeks later, my proactive ways produced what is now infamously known (only in my mind) as the Batman date.
So once when I was 13, I had a real date. My first, out-of-the house, to-the-movies date. It was Batman Returns. Not real romantic by all wooing standards, but I didn't care. I could tell someone I "went on a date."
There was a catch, though. His mom had to go with us.
It was not MY idea of a good date, even though I sympathized with both mothers, but I guess neither my date or I had a lot of say in the matter since we needed her to get us to the movie. In the end, there was no win-win because she had to watch all the penguin blood come out of Danny Devito's mouth in the final scenes of the graphic novel-come-animation.
We never went on another date, but I'd look for every reason to call him on the phone or meet up with him when our parents met for boy scout meetings. I didn't really like him ALL that much. He was a year older, kind of dorky but kind of cute, and went to a different school. I was just, well, boy crazy. He ended up losing interest and I ended up getting sick of his "would you rather die being hanged or sliding down a razor and into a bucket of iodine" level of conversations. They were topics better left to all his dorky friends.
Let me back up a bit by explaining that I met this kid getting ready for the annual Boy Scout Day Camp that involved cartloads of projects: handyman, craftyman, applied sciences, and the like. Three days worth of activities that would keep every age and every level of boys' hands and mind busy, but that also need prepping. This is where CG comes in. CG had a Dremel with which he was carving notches out of wood pieces that would become tie slides. I, as the daughter of two active Cub Scout leader parents, did the dutiful thing by coming into all the pre-planning meetings and helped. So I picked up a Dremel, started carving notches, and struck up a conversation. This has always been my style.
Except I missed after about the hundredth piece of wood and ended up Dremeling off some skin. I washed it off, pressed a towel to the wound, and retired from notch-making. A few weeks later, my proactive ways produced what is now infamously known (only in my mind) as the Batman date.
28 January 2009
These people just don't get it.
These people are just too nice!! What the hell? WHY... am I not allowed to be grumpy or pissy or feisty or WHATEVER without being BUGGED about it? Why I am even bugged about being "bugged"? Especially when they are, after all, JUST trying to be nice and concerned...?
Tired perhaps. I just "got word" (i.e. looked at the schedule) that I'll be doing the closing shift for a majority of the month of February and I'm suprised to find how NOT happy I am about this. I really thought I was more flexible. It surprises me that I cannot just be okay with this. I will just have to get over it, wrap my little head around it, but not without kicking my feet and pitching just a teeny, TINY little fit about it.
I mean, I knew when I applied (signed on, agree to employment, etc.) that I wanted to be flexible. I am fortunate in my life that, even though I have kids, I also have a husband who maintains the same hours as my kids and can be with them when I have to work something other than a day shift.
But I DID say I preferred days; that I would be willing to do the odd weekend or evening shift, but that I preferred days. I've been working mostly days, my kids need me to be a part of their lives, and now I'm stuck working the closing shift with all the school-aged kids.
Which I don't like. They like me, and I don't know why, and for the most part, I get along with them, but they're just not old enough/matured enough to appreciate/identify/apply the kind of work ethic that comes from needing the job, as opposed to wanting extra cash.
But now, for the month of February, the majority of my shifts are evening and closing shifts and I just can't get over how unhappy I am about this; and even though it is only, for all intense purposes only one month, and the month the owners need and deserve the vacation they are going on, AND the shortest month of the year, I still miss all this time with my girls. I stagnate somewhat in their lives. I lose touch (a bit) with what's going on. I just feel like that's unacceptable.
Plus, I don't get home until late, which I also hate, because there's no time with girls, no time with Kyle, and I already have trouble with mornings as it is. I hate starting the day late, and working late is the super-epitome of that. I just hate it. Hate it, hate it, hate it. It's a change. And I have this whole thing with change, being totally aware of it, wanting to be accepting of it and generally taking change up the tail pipe wherever it creeps in; but where I'm starting to find that my hellbent desire to protect the good of my family meets change with an ugly scowl.
And especially with this??? Why do I-I-I have to be the one that gets the shaft? The short end of the stick? The one stiffed with the lower-end shift? Why is it that I am always getting the shit end of the stick because "you can handle it, Amy"? Just because I can and am capable doesn't mean I want to. It doesn't even make it "all better" any more. It's a horseshit excuse to relegate the small girl, the easy-going girl, the will-do-anything girl to the gallows. And it's horseshit.
I'm just getting so angry. Maybe it's best to wrap this up right here.
Tired perhaps. I just "got word" (i.e. looked at the schedule) that I'll be doing the closing shift for a majority of the month of February and I'm suprised to find how NOT happy I am about this. I really thought I was more flexible. It surprises me that I cannot just be okay with this. I will just have to get over it, wrap my little head around it, but not without kicking my feet and pitching just a teeny, TINY little fit about it.
I mean, I knew when I applied (signed on, agree to employment, etc.) that I wanted to be flexible. I am fortunate in my life that, even though I have kids, I also have a husband who maintains the same hours as my kids and can be with them when I have to work something other than a day shift.
But I DID say I preferred days; that I would be willing to do the odd weekend or evening shift, but that I preferred days. I've been working mostly days, my kids need me to be a part of their lives, and now I'm stuck working the closing shift with all the school-aged kids.
Which I don't like. They like me, and I don't know why, and for the most part, I get along with them, but they're just not old enough/matured enough to appreciate/identify/apply the kind of work ethic that comes from needing the job, as opposed to wanting extra cash.
But now, for the month of February, the majority of my shifts are evening and closing shifts and I just can't get over how unhappy I am about this; and even though it is only, for all intense purposes only one month, and the month the owners need and deserve the vacation they are going on, AND the shortest month of the year, I still miss all this time with my girls. I stagnate somewhat in their lives. I lose touch (a bit) with what's going on. I just feel like that's unacceptable.
Plus, I don't get home until late, which I also hate, because there's no time with girls, no time with Kyle, and I already have trouble with mornings as it is. I hate starting the day late, and working late is the super-epitome of that. I just hate it. Hate it, hate it, hate it. It's a change. And I have this whole thing with change, being totally aware of it, wanting to be accepting of it and generally taking change up the tail pipe wherever it creeps in; but where I'm starting to find that my hellbent desire to protect the good of my family meets change with an ugly scowl.
And especially with this??? Why do I-I-I have to be the one that gets the shaft? The short end of the stick? The one stiffed with the lower-end shift? Why is it that I am always getting the shit end of the stick because "you can handle it, Amy"? Just because I can and am capable doesn't mean I want to. It doesn't even make it "all better" any more. It's a horseshit excuse to relegate the small girl, the easy-going girl, the will-do-anything girl to the gallows. And it's horseshit.
I'm just getting so angry. Maybe it's best to wrap this up right here.
20 January 2009
Hurling M & M's
I'm really not that into... ANYTHING. (Right now.)
Everything is pissing me off! And why is that? I haven't got a hot clue in hell reason for why. Unless, that is, of course, you consider Post Menstrual Syndrome, which doesn't even exist yet (so far as the medical community has registered, anyway) and that grinding M & M's fiercely between your teeth means SOMETHING.
Noise pollution/overload? The fan from the downstairs bathroom is driving me to a fist-slamming mode of frustration because it is one of about a trillion other things in this house that works like it was from the fifties. Oh wait, it WAS from the fifties. Okay, maybe not the actual fan assembly. More like the 80's and the house was built in the fifties. But whatever. The main problem is: it's loud and it reminds me of all the other little projects that are forced into a semi-existing priority list between my husband, me, and the house. The humming carries upstairs, vibrating the living room floor, and creating this overall drumming underlay of sound that makes it difficult to focus on the important sounds--my girls' voices, my husband's voice, and all of the horrible, ear-peeling, window-shattering voice auditions that Simon comments on during the beginning stages of American Idol.
Then there's work. Usually, I can separate work from home and leave it there, shake it off, and go to the next thing; but I have found myself unusually irritated today. How hard can it be? Just take the order, punch it in, serve it hot, make sure the drinks are flowing, and follow procedure. For some reason it was in the air today that 'higher ups' (i.e. a more experienced server) felt their need and purpose in life was to show me how I was NOT doing what I needing to be doing via the Babysitting Method. In other words, proverbially taking me by the hand and showing me via the visual demo how to do something I had, for all intense purposes, simply forgotten to do. Something that can be funny if it`s made to be funny, but is something I find, in any other case, virtually and pragmatically insulting.
A better way? Just point it out in words, tell me I f***ed up and go about your business. In other words, tell me what I did wrong and then leave me the hell alone. It`s a respect thing. And it goes both ways. I don`t need you OR your dog telling me what to do if it`s not going to be delivered in the same respectful way I would deliver to you.
I guess I can abide in that method insofar as it being one I would use, without intent to insult, to ensure that what I was saying was being heard and understood. There is and always has been a teacher at the root of my soul. But for some reason, when it is the other way around, I find it belittling and even laced with sarcasm. Why would that be?
Perhaps this is it. The sole reason for my irritation when all is said and done (and the rest of it only adding the the mix, rather than being the cause)--coming into this kind of attitude once more--this superiority complex. I am half inclined to say that if this is how it's going to be, then change my shift now, because I won't put up with it. Another B. Another small- or narrow-minded small town dweller whose ambitions to be superior do not rise above the local level or personal level (as in to become better than they are even within their surrounding, but simply content to make everyone else seem smaller.) Another batch of simpletons content to carry themselves as a self-perceived big fish in a small pond. Or better yet, a self-perceived better fish in THE (any) pond.
Like it or not, I do understand and have known for years that these kinds of attitudes do exist and I`m going to run into them no matter where I work, what I do, or where I go. So why the big deal? Why does this entire situation, which seemed small and easy to shed, warrant this entire diatribe of a blog? It really is something that this whole unit of spillage came from something that seemed so relatively insignificant in the whole of things.
Maybe just because the manner in which this is all brought out seems so very condescending. I mean this is not to say that I am above them, myself. I could say that it's not really that complicated a job, that a well-trained monkey could do it, etc., etc., but that's a lie. You have to have a certain amount of finesse juggling coffee cups, drink trays, dish trays, handling dishes when clearing, and most importantly handling trays of hot food, coffee pots, and other various juggling acts around babies in highchairs. You also have to have the willpower and brain to punch in exactly what was ordered, missing nothing, keeping track of multiple tables of multiple orders, pouring drinks, serving soup, putting steak knives on steak orders and dipping sauces with the chicken nuggets, and figure out how to kindly ask the cooks to fix their mistakes or help you fix yours.
But it doesn`t take a degree or any amount of formal training to be good, or even mediocre, waitress. A lot of things get missed and no waitress in the world is exempt from mistakes. You forget to bring table 2 their glass of water and table 4 hasn't ordered yet. You come back from the kitchen, forget what mission you were on, and get sidetracked by another customer who flags you down for napkins. Meanwhile, table 4 is still waiting, they have kids who are screaming, the phone is ringing, another order is buzzing in your pocket, and the touch-screen till is causing you flustered grief. It happens to the best of them. So what makes any one of them think, especially when they`ve never even left their surroundings to attain new life experience, both within and out of work-related situations, that they are somehow better because they can snidely `show you` the right way to do something?
Considering I've never done this, I think I'm doing pretty good. I try to greet everything and everyone with a smile or at least can-do attitude, and maybe that makes me appear ditzy, but I get what the customer wants, I fix their orders, I work for their satisfaction, I get the job done, and every waitress experiences scenarios like that every day. Just like I have done with any other job I've ever had.
Quite honestly, I think I irk the shit out of *her.*
And quite honestly, she irks me, too, with her `specific` ways of doing everything even though it`s not her restaurant. For me, though, her quirks are not problematic. Life goes on and I ignore her for the most part. Nod my head and smile and do it my way anyway.
It just lends itself to the theory and further philosophy of moral fiber, personal belief systems, self-psycho-analysis (not to my degree, of course, because I take it too far, usually) and most of all, ability to cope, to adapt, to modify, to see change as growth and not loss of control.
But, I digress. That is not my problem and I absolutely refuse to deal with her. I am not her problem. She is not mine. I do everything that I can to make the job easier for everyone else, because that`s the way I work, and then I just keep on moving. I had much difficulty getting away from conflict or tension daily with the other job, getting away from that person, getting away by means of discussion or distraction with others, but in this new scenario, there are plenty of scenes to bounce off of and thusly, find recovery (both in the mistakes I make and in getting breathing room from that other person.) I will not allow this woman, no matter how much she tries or how little I know to talk to me, treat me, act towards me in the same manner as the dictator of yore. I just find it difficult to walk around intention to avoid confrontation and sulking when they have been confronted. Life is life, people. Confrontation happens all the time. Too little is as unhealthy as too much.
That being said, then it`s really time to get off the defensive side of the board and create an offense. I really need to not care if she likes me or not (which I don`t think I have to this point---working with the other guy really made me realize that I really, REALLY don`t give a flying s*** about what the other one thinks because I`m doing the job I need to do and the jobs that need to be done and doing them well, with a competent, capable mind, and doing enough to help others out, too) and I need to just go about my job like I have been, not giving a shit. I guess it just boils down to control and no one will ever get mine.
Everything is pissing me off! And why is that? I haven't got a hot clue in hell reason for why. Unless, that is, of course, you consider Post Menstrual Syndrome, which doesn't even exist yet (so far as the medical community has registered, anyway) and that grinding M & M's fiercely between your teeth means SOMETHING.
Noise pollution/overload? The fan from the downstairs bathroom is driving me to a fist-slamming mode of frustration because it is one of about a trillion other things in this house that works like it was from the fifties. Oh wait, it WAS from the fifties. Okay, maybe not the actual fan assembly. More like the 80's and the house was built in the fifties. But whatever. The main problem is: it's loud and it reminds me of all the other little projects that are forced into a semi-existing priority list between my husband, me, and the house. The humming carries upstairs, vibrating the living room floor, and creating this overall drumming underlay of sound that makes it difficult to focus on the important sounds--my girls' voices, my husband's voice, and all of the horrible, ear-peeling, window-shattering voice auditions that Simon comments on during the beginning stages of American Idol.
Then there's work. Usually, I can separate work from home and leave it there, shake it off, and go to the next thing; but I have found myself unusually irritated today. How hard can it be? Just take the order, punch it in, serve it hot, make sure the drinks are flowing, and follow procedure. For some reason it was in the air today that 'higher ups' (i.e. a more experienced server) felt their need and purpose in life was to show me how I was NOT doing what I needing to be doing via the Babysitting Method. In other words, proverbially taking me by the hand and showing me via the visual demo how to do something I had, for all intense purposes, simply forgotten to do. Something that can be funny if it`s made to be funny, but is something I find, in any other case, virtually and pragmatically insulting.
A better way? Just point it out in words, tell me I f***ed up and go about your business. In other words, tell me what I did wrong and then leave me the hell alone. It`s a respect thing. And it goes both ways. I don`t need you OR your dog telling me what to do if it`s not going to be delivered in the same respectful way I would deliver to you.
I guess I can abide in that method insofar as it being one I would use, without intent to insult, to ensure that what I was saying was being heard and understood. There is and always has been a teacher at the root of my soul. But for some reason, when it is the other way around, I find it belittling and even laced with sarcasm. Why would that be?
Perhaps this is it. The sole reason for my irritation when all is said and done (and the rest of it only adding the the mix, rather than being the cause)--coming into this kind of attitude once more--this superiority complex. I am half inclined to say that if this is how it's going to be, then change my shift now, because I won't put up with it. Another B. Another small- or narrow-minded small town dweller whose ambitions to be superior do not rise above the local level or personal level (as in to become better than they are even within their surrounding, but simply content to make everyone else seem smaller.) Another batch of simpletons content to carry themselves as a self-perceived big fish in a small pond. Or better yet, a self-perceived better fish in THE (any) pond.
Like it or not, I do understand and have known for years that these kinds of attitudes do exist and I`m going to run into them no matter where I work, what I do, or where I go. So why the big deal? Why does this entire situation, which seemed small and easy to shed, warrant this entire diatribe of a blog? It really is something that this whole unit of spillage came from something that seemed so relatively insignificant in the whole of things.
Maybe just because the manner in which this is all brought out seems so very condescending. I mean this is not to say that I am above them, myself. I could say that it's not really that complicated a job, that a well-trained monkey could do it, etc., etc., but that's a lie. You have to have a certain amount of finesse juggling coffee cups, drink trays, dish trays, handling dishes when clearing, and most importantly handling trays of hot food, coffee pots, and other various juggling acts around babies in highchairs. You also have to have the willpower and brain to punch in exactly what was ordered, missing nothing, keeping track of multiple tables of multiple orders, pouring drinks, serving soup, putting steak knives on steak orders and dipping sauces with the chicken nuggets, and figure out how to kindly ask the cooks to fix their mistakes or help you fix yours.
But it doesn`t take a degree or any amount of formal training to be good, or even mediocre, waitress. A lot of things get missed and no waitress in the world is exempt from mistakes. You forget to bring table 2 their glass of water and table 4 hasn't ordered yet. You come back from the kitchen, forget what mission you were on, and get sidetracked by another customer who flags you down for napkins. Meanwhile, table 4 is still waiting, they have kids who are screaming, the phone is ringing, another order is buzzing in your pocket, and the touch-screen till is causing you flustered grief. It happens to the best of them. So what makes any one of them think, especially when they`ve never even left their surroundings to attain new life experience, both within and out of work-related situations, that they are somehow better because they can snidely `show you` the right way to do something?
Considering I've never done this, I think I'm doing pretty good. I try to greet everything and everyone with a smile or at least can-do attitude, and maybe that makes me appear ditzy, but I get what the customer wants, I fix their orders, I work for their satisfaction, I get the job done, and every waitress experiences scenarios like that every day. Just like I have done with any other job I've ever had.
Quite honestly, I think I irk the shit out of *her.*
And quite honestly, she irks me, too, with her `specific` ways of doing everything even though it`s not her restaurant. For me, though, her quirks are not problematic. Life goes on and I ignore her for the most part. Nod my head and smile and do it my way anyway.
It just lends itself to the theory and further philosophy of moral fiber, personal belief systems, self-psycho-analysis (not to my degree, of course, because I take it too far, usually) and most of all, ability to cope, to adapt, to modify, to see change as growth and not loss of control.
But, I digress. That is not my problem and I absolutely refuse to deal with her. I am not her problem. She is not mine. I do everything that I can to make the job easier for everyone else, because that`s the way I work, and then I just keep on moving. I had much difficulty getting away from conflict or tension daily with the other job, getting away from that person, getting away by means of discussion or distraction with others, but in this new scenario, there are plenty of scenes to bounce off of and thusly, find recovery (both in the mistakes I make and in getting breathing room from that other person.) I will not allow this woman, no matter how much she tries or how little I know to talk to me, treat me, act towards me in the same manner as the dictator of yore. I just find it difficult to walk around intention to avoid confrontation and sulking when they have been confronted. Life is life, people. Confrontation happens all the time. Too little is as unhealthy as too much.
That being said, then it`s really time to get off the defensive side of the board and create an offense. I really need to not care if she likes me or not (which I don`t think I have to this point---working with the other guy really made me realize that I really, REALLY don`t give a flying s*** about what the other one thinks because I`m doing the job I need to do and the jobs that need to be done and doing them well, with a competent, capable mind, and doing enough to help others out, too) and I need to just go about my job like I have been, not giving a shit. I guess it just boils down to control and no one will ever get mine.
10 January 2009
I HATE the phone.
What am I supposed to do? I guess I just don't have the kind of... whatever you call... skills, habits of keeping in touch like other people. Computer is the fastest easiest way, but that doesn't make it bad. It just makes it convenient. I say I am never too busy for friends and family, but I've just spent SO MUCH OF MY DAMNED LIFE ON THE COMPUTER that it's easier. The phone is an intrusion on life. I hate it when it rings, I hate dialing, I hate everything about Alexander Graham Bell's damned invention.
I mean what the hell? Email/write every few months to get all the info because I couldn't be bothered before? It's all that I can do TO ask, to remember to ask, to remember to BE nosey! I really don't know the difference between nosey and caring except the mindset. Bullshit!! I call when I do because that's when I can stand waiting no longer. And why do I wait? Because I hate being on the phone! I hate calling and inconveniencing people. The EASIEST excuse for not doing something, but also the TRUEST for me. Wow. She really damned me. I hate phoning. Hate it, hate it, hate it. It seems more impersonal than anything and I DO NOT LIKE hearing problems I cannot fix, cannot say anything about, monitoring what I say, filtering everything that comes out of my mouth, trying to explain without gesture, eye contact. It is a weekness, much like some of those who hate writing. WHAT am I supposed to do?
I hate it when people phone to "get the scoop" because I think it's nosey. I hate gossip, I hate gossiping, I feel less of a person. I think I hate phoning because no one listens when I talk anyway and because EVERYONE seems to take things I say the wrong way. It doesn't matter how I say it or that I have good things to say! Or that I've learned a million ways to filter or communicate. It all just comes out like poo-poo anyway! It's just ANOTHER venue for people to find a way to take me WRONG!
And maybe I'm just so damned pissy about it because I'm so damned worried about coming off "exactly the right way." Well then, that's not such a fault, is it? I can honestly say I AM NOT trying to get it right or perfect anymore, but if the people closest to me are having the problem, then whose problem is it really? MINE. And that pisses me off. So why be on the phone? I just want to exchange dialogue, not exhert this drama over words. Maybe I should go on a word hiatus as well. Because I haven't fared any better there, either.
I hate it because you can't read conversational cues like when to shut up. Or start talking. I hate being interupted and I hate interupting. Hate both with a passion. A fierce passion. I hate dead silence. I hate condescending tones on the phone. I hate crying. Hearing or doing. I hate it. I've only JUST begun to appreciate talking on the phone with Kyle. And he's my husband!! I hate being checked up on, I hate having to stop what I'm doing to listen and I hate inflicting the same on others. I hate hearing my voice when I DO talk and I hate how I'm condemned for talking or ridiculed for talking fast. I HATE being on the phone!! I LOVE that texting has become so readily available. I love that emails can be read at the reader's LEISURELY convenience. I love that emails are far less intrusive than its aural counterpart.
I hate the phone.
I mean what the hell? Email/write every few months to get all the info because I couldn't be bothered before? It's all that I can do TO ask, to remember to ask, to remember to BE nosey! I really don't know the difference between nosey and caring except the mindset. Bullshit!! I call when I do because that's when I can stand waiting no longer. And why do I wait? Because I hate being on the phone! I hate calling and inconveniencing people. The EASIEST excuse for not doing something, but also the TRUEST for me. Wow. She really damned me. I hate phoning. Hate it, hate it, hate it. It seems more impersonal than anything and I DO NOT LIKE hearing problems I cannot fix, cannot say anything about, monitoring what I say, filtering everything that comes out of my mouth, trying to explain without gesture, eye contact. It is a weekness, much like some of those who hate writing. WHAT am I supposed to do?
I hate it when people phone to "get the scoop" because I think it's nosey. I hate gossip, I hate gossiping, I feel less of a person. I think I hate phoning because no one listens when I talk anyway and because EVERYONE seems to take things I say the wrong way. It doesn't matter how I say it or that I have good things to say! Or that I've learned a million ways to filter or communicate. It all just comes out like poo-poo anyway! It's just ANOTHER venue for people to find a way to take me WRONG!
And maybe I'm just so damned pissy about it because I'm so damned worried about coming off "exactly the right way." Well then, that's not such a fault, is it? I can honestly say I AM NOT trying to get it right or perfect anymore, but if the people closest to me are having the problem, then whose problem is it really? MINE. And that pisses me off. So why be on the phone? I just want to exchange dialogue, not exhert this drama over words. Maybe I should go on a word hiatus as well. Because I haven't fared any better there, either.
I hate it because you can't read conversational cues like when to shut up. Or start talking. I hate being interupted and I hate interupting. Hate both with a passion. A fierce passion. I hate dead silence. I hate condescending tones on the phone. I hate crying. Hearing or doing. I hate it. I've only JUST begun to appreciate talking on the phone with Kyle. And he's my husband!! I hate being checked up on, I hate having to stop what I'm doing to listen and I hate inflicting the same on others. I hate hearing my voice when I DO talk and I hate how I'm condemned for talking or ridiculed for talking fast. I HATE being on the phone!! I LOVE that texting has become so readily available. I love that emails can be read at the reader's LEISURELY convenience. I love that emails are far less intrusive than its aural counterpart.
I hate the phone.
09 January 2009
I cracked just before Christmas...
I wrote this in my other blog some time ago, after I'd completed the ginormous project of painting the entire upstairs.
* * *
Well... Oh my God, I don't know what to say. I mean, really, thank you so--
-much!! *tear*breathe*
Okay. *sigh* I'd like to thank first and foremost my publicists and agent. Without their undying support, I would not be here. Bug and Doll, you know who you are. HB? Yeah. You were there for me through the worst of it, from the beginning until the completed project. You helped me. You helped me so much.
I just can't believe it...
Thank you so much!
Uhh-m, I'd like to thank the paint mixing people, the supply store, um... the (*cue polite laugh) till clerks who rang me through. I just don't know what to say. I'd like to thank all the little people who made this possible. This award goes out to you, this award... IS for you.
But mostly I would be amiss to not mention the hugest thank you my husband and my beautiful girls. This aware goes out to them-
No! Don't you dare cue the music!
-for their patience in living in disastrous conditions, having to navigate the treacherous piles of clutter in the living room, giving up their comfortable lives for the sake of Crazy Mommy Painting The House and um..
Wait, wait, wait!
Just... thank you all, dear people, for this award. This- *shakes head, tears up, shakes award* prize for the biggest job ever. I love you. Mommy loves you. *Mwa!* to you... goodnight, go to bed. Thank you, Academy!!
--*exit stage right
* * *
Well... Oh my God, I don't know what to say. I mean, really, thank you so--
-much!! *tear*breathe*
Okay. *sigh* I'd like to thank first and foremost my publicists and agent. Without their undying support, I would not be here. Bug and Doll, you know who you are. HB? Yeah. You were there for me through the worst of it, from the beginning until the completed project. You helped me. You helped me so much.
I just can't believe it...
Thank you so much!
Uhh-m, I'd like to thank the paint mixing people, the supply store, um... the (*cue polite laugh) till clerks who rang me through. I just don't know what to say. I'd like to thank all the little people who made this possible. This award goes out to you, this award... IS for you.
But mostly I would be amiss to not mention the hugest thank you my husband and my beautiful girls. This aware goes out to them-
No! Don't you dare cue the music!
-for their patience in living in disastrous conditions, having to navigate the treacherous piles of clutter in the living room, giving up their comfortable lives for the sake of Crazy Mommy Painting The House and um..
Wait, wait, wait!
Just... thank you all, dear people, for this award. This- *shakes head, tears up, shakes award* prize for the biggest job ever. I love you. Mommy loves you. *Mwa!* to you... goodnight, go to bed. Thank you, Academy!!
--*exit stage right
03 January 2009
Ngh
Ngh.
Who needs friends whose words undercut, doubt, and criticize? I mean, really. Perhaps the recessive strains of insecurity show in worrying about, even for a second, the status message of a friend whose actions of bumping a player from the table resulted in an angry comment (by me); but if the consequential conversation that followed is any indication of immaturity, then it lay just as much with him as with me.
I guess I just don't understand him. I guess I've just always wanted our friendship to be more of what I thought it was or what I thought I wanted rather than what is and just accepting that. Which is fine. But then, I don't really accept it. Even if I could accept what is incompatible , I don't accept the way all words seem to have any other meaning than the given meaning and how all of our conversations over the years have morphed into other-lateral versions of themselves. Two planes of conversation and meaning. Truly this is not healthy. And for a good man of good character and good value that I know he is, we simply are not communicating at face value any more and I think we chalk it up to the evolution of conversation that has come from snotty dig after snotty dig.
Who needs friends whose words undercut, doubt, and criticize? I mean, really. Perhaps the recessive strains of insecurity show in worrying about, even for a second, the status message of a friend whose actions of bumping a player from the table resulted in an angry comment (by me); but if the consequential conversation that followed is any indication of immaturity, then it lay just as much with him as with me.
I guess I just don't understand him. I guess I've just always wanted our friendship to be more of what I thought it was or what I thought I wanted rather than what is and just accepting that. Which is fine. But then, I don't really accept it. Even if I could accept what is incompatible , I don't accept the way all words seem to have any other meaning than the given meaning and how all of our conversations over the years have morphed into other-lateral versions of themselves. Two planes of conversation and meaning. Truly this is not healthy. And for a good man of good character and good value that I know he is, we simply are not communicating at face value any more and I think we chalk it up to the evolution of conversation that has come from snotty dig after snotty dig.
31 December 2008
uh--mm. Happy New Year!
Okay, so it's not quite New Year's here in the central time zone, but by the time I finish this post, it will be.
Happy New Year!! A time for resolution, reflection, hopefully new promise (or at least renewed promise) and a whole new refresh.
Of course, this is only so far as the pop culture has counted it--a new beginning, so-to-speak--because our Julian calendar flips forward one more number and the way in which we count and measure life starts over at 1. We don't have to get too contemplative about history and the debate over having learned from the past or not as humanity has shown its repetitive errors over centuries of sin and abuse, but we also know that there is relief and hope (hope being the essential key word) in flipping the page, recounting at 1, and starting over. Even if it is only by human measure.
I am also a little bit buzzed and if it seems like my little account, my little New Year's eve ramble, is a little windbaggish and over-exherted, well it probably is. I've had about ten glasses of wine and enough nachos to feed a small family in a third world country. I stand by what I've said, though, and tend to find the inhibitions with which I usually approach writing are pleasantly thrown out the window with a little bit of wine (or BEER!)
Happy New Year!
Happy New Year!! A time for resolution, reflection, hopefully new promise (or at least renewed promise) and a whole new refresh.
Of course, this is only so far as the pop culture has counted it--a new beginning, so-to-speak--because our Julian calendar flips forward one more number and the way in which we count and measure life starts over at 1. We don't have to get too contemplative about history and the debate over having learned from the past or not as humanity has shown its repetitive errors over centuries of sin and abuse, but we also know that there is relief and hope (hope being the essential key word) in flipping the page, recounting at 1, and starting over. Even if it is only by human measure.
I am also a little bit buzzed and if it seems like my little account, my little New Year's eve ramble, is a little windbaggish and over-exherted, well it probably is. I've had about ten glasses of wine and enough nachos to feed a small family in a third world country. I stand by what I've said, though, and tend to find the inhibitions with which I usually approach writing are pleasantly thrown out the window with a little bit of wine (or BEER!)
Happy New Year!
18 December 2008
T-minus-36 hours...
Mom's coming in tomorrow. I'll need to remember to get that coat from Darlene before I go and grab the ones here. Need to get Kath's phone number and make sure I have a map and a shovel (you know, just in case there are stupid kids trying to pass me on the winter roads again) for bailing tires out of snow. I have learned that I love winter driving, but even the best driver is up sh** creek if they're not prepared.
There are outstanding bills, gift-shopping still to be done, money to come in and I'm just trying to ride the tide. It's tight and I've little room to complain as I quit a good-paying job and moved to a lesser-paying job to keep my sanity (and protect the well-being and ears of my family), but K and I are feeling the pinch. I'm not panicked by any means, unlike years in the past, though, which is good; and I think all the years of living each day as your last has come into balance with wiser thinking, financial sensibility. (NOT saying money is important, just knowing how to manage it.) It's one thing to learn the important, powerful life lesson of realizing life is precious, but it's completely another to learn it at an immature age and taking it to the extreme--either by neglecting finances or by allowing emotion to override everything.
I have to work today and I am also stepping in this afternoon to rehearse with the elementary kids for their concert as the other accompanist double-booked himself and pawned the non-paying, adult-less gig this way. I want to get chicken in the crock pot for K and the girls so they don't have to worry about fixing supper. Get the last bit of laundry done, get cleaned up, get the blanket and seat covers out to the car. K just called and we're going to lunch. It's busy, but everything is coming together and thank God (I mean truly, really) I have such a great family, supportive husband, and one that can do all that domestic stuff so that I can leave Friday feeling assured it will get done. K is amazing. Baby, YOU'RE amazing! =)
Over and out.
There are outstanding bills, gift-shopping still to be done, money to come in and I'm just trying to ride the tide. It's tight and I've little room to complain as I quit a good-paying job and moved to a lesser-paying job to keep my sanity (and protect the well-being and ears of my family), but K and I are feeling the pinch. I'm not panicked by any means, unlike years in the past, though, which is good; and I think all the years of living each day as your last has come into balance with wiser thinking, financial sensibility. (NOT saying money is important, just knowing how to manage it.) It's one thing to learn the important, powerful life lesson of realizing life is precious, but it's completely another to learn it at an immature age and taking it to the extreme--either by neglecting finances or by allowing emotion to override everything.
I have to work today and I am also stepping in this afternoon to rehearse with the elementary kids for their concert as the other accompanist double-booked himself and pawned the non-paying, adult-less gig this way. I want to get chicken in the crock pot for K and the girls so they don't have to worry about fixing supper. Get the last bit of laundry done, get cleaned up, get the blanket and seat covers out to the car. K just called and we're going to lunch. It's busy, but everything is coming together and thank God (I mean truly, really) I have such a great family, supportive husband, and one that can do all that domestic stuff so that I can leave Friday feeling assured it will get done. K is amazing. Baby, YOU'RE amazing! =)
Over and out.
17 December 2008
Carson Daly, toolbag extraordinaire
I dunno. I guess he was cool when I was younger. To "those" guys. The ones in school who swaggered around in their brand-name jeans, pop-cultured hair, video vocabulary, staggering attitude of something. Ya you know those ones. The ones that could only talk about their weekend escapades in the middle of third slot Econ class and their MTV-ish douchebaggery. All souls seemingly lacking in substance and not only ignorant of those around them but annoying the ever-lovin' piss out of those around them. So... empty!
I dunno. I guess I'm tired. Well shyeah, duh! Been running nonstop between new job and all my accompaniment gigs and getting to bed late all the while. I tell ya, I am getting sick of... dare I say it... dare I set the ill side of karma upon me and say... piano-ing!!
Lucky for me, my wonderful husband has been an integral, vital, crucial help in all things domestic, allowing the potential levels of stress to stay sane and for me, sans drama, as I keep hoofing it the rest of this week through one more accompaniment moment (yes, less than a 'gig'--far less) and one more shift of work before going to meet my mother at the airport for the first time ever since living in Canada. What's that, honey? You want me to help around the house? Are you crazy? I mean, are you FRICKIN' KIDDING me? I don't DO housework. I mean. Thank you.
Thank you, thank you, thank you for doing all the things I've been putting off because I've been too busy to do or have had issues with or have started to have issues with or just want to pitch a claw hammer through or neglected or misunderstood. Thank you for washing your own underwear and doing the dishes and making the bed and realizing that the kids feeding themselves candy and granola bars and chocolate chip cookies with chocolate sauce and sprinkles on top means that my turn to fix supper really is your turn. I really appreciate that. My full head of hair thanks you. Facebooking task forces thank you.
I dunno. I guess I'm tired. Well shyeah, duh! Been running nonstop between new job and all my accompaniment gigs and getting to bed late all the while. I tell ya, I am getting sick of... dare I say it... dare I set the ill side of karma upon me and say... piano-ing!!
Lucky for me, my wonderful husband has been an integral, vital, crucial help in all things domestic, allowing the potential levels of stress to stay sane and for me, sans drama, as I keep hoofing it the rest of this week through one more accompaniment moment (yes, less than a 'gig'--far less) and one more shift of work before going to meet my mother at the airport for the first time ever since living in Canada. What's that, honey? You want me to help around the house? Are you crazy? I mean, are you FRICKIN' KIDDING me? I don't DO housework. I mean. Thank you.
Thank you, thank you, thank you for doing all the things I've been putting off because I've been too busy to do or have had issues with or have started to have issues with or just want to pitch a claw hammer through or neglected or misunderstood. Thank you for washing your own underwear and doing the dishes and making the bed and realizing that the kids feeding themselves candy and granola bars and chocolate chip cookies with chocolate sauce and sprinkles on top means that my turn to fix supper really is your turn. I really appreciate that. My full head of hair thanks you. Facebooking task forces thank you.
15 December 2008
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.
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.
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