Gestalt Aprons

This evening I spent, possibly, the better part of an hour untangling forty-some-odd aprons. After being washed they had been tossed, as a single load, into the dryer and forgotten by a co-worker this afternoon.

To my female readers, I propose that this may be analogous to attempting to wash forty bras as a single load, and then attempting to discern where one begins and another ends. To may male readers: Ever tried to wash forty bras?

From the dryer, I retrieved a nouveau-art clump of pockets, strands, and clips; thinking: "Who the fuck...?"

I was tempted to ignore this entwined cotton mass, as far as hanging it within sight, for someone else to decipher tomorrow. But I couldn't.

I could not because to do so would be lazy. Although I had not created this puzzle, I had found it. More significantly, I could not because I saw it as a puzzle.

Puzzles are for solving.

As a child, I remember my mother calling me to her room seeking "help with something." She was standing at her dresser, in front of an open jewelry box, holding a wad of chains. She could not disentangle them, and had summoned me; knowing that I would probably be able to do so. It was not my young-wee fingers, nor my astute eye sight, which she was in need of, but my willingness to appreciate attention to detail.

Tiny gold strands unlaced themselves in my mind's eye, before my fingers got to work.

I'm horrible with estimation. I can not accurately judge distance, nor age, but I've always been good with spacialization.

Standing in the wait station tonight, methodically imagining cords unfurling and tracing those imaginings with dexterous agency, I wondered why I do not possess the ability to extend this skill to other areas of my life.

Perhaps I may if I take the time to focus again upon details; consciously choosing to unravel them, so that I may rearrange them. I think to do so may create an opportunity to understand a larger cohesiveness.

It is not an atomist explanation to my life which I am pondering.

I am questioning my Gestalt life.

The whole is made up of, but greater than, the sum of its parts.

Nightmare Hippie Girl

What is a 'hippie'?

According to Beck's
Nightmare Hippie Girl,

"...She's a magical, sparklin tease
Shes a rainbow chokin the breeze...

...She's cooking salad for breakfast
Shes got tofu the size of texas...

...She's playin footsie in another dimension
Shes a goddess milking her time for all that its worth."

Merriam-Webster Online defines "hippie" as

"a usually young person who rejects the mores of established society (as by dressing unconventionally or favoring communal living) and advocates a nonviolent ethic."

Blogger of The Insane Waiter, Secret, believes that

"[hippies] are generally poor tippers, smell like patchouli and have gross hygeine. They are even worse to work with ... [and] are among the least motivated employees, this may be because they feel they should give their attention to activism such as saving baby seals or global warming or poverty."

Wow.

In his post, Effin Hippies, Secret further describes 'hippies' using such colourful adjectives as "slow and ignorant." He maintains that they "speak lazily," "take years at the computer," and "don't take any sort of direction well."

Perhaps, once upon a time, somebody's ex opted to pack her patchouli-infused possessions into the trunk of a VW, belonging to a baby seal-saving better deal. Did she hit the open road that led opposite of Secret? Maybe. Maybe he just had an awful week before sitting down to compose "Effin Hippies." I don't know.

What I do know is that I find his condescension, and his self-righteous tone disconcerting. Especially considering the fact that he holds a management position as a head waiter. How may one so judgmental be effectively responsible for overseeing the organization of numerous employees? He cannot. Be effective, that is.

Although Secret may hold valid complaints regarding the work habits of particular employees, his approach seems rather asinine, and therefore unproductive. (Does that make him a hippie too?) After his instructions to replace a laundry hamper bag where not followed, Secret responded with:

"This is what happens when you leave a hippie in charge of something, shit all over the floor, its a good thing they don't run the world or we'd all be fucked."

Why would an employee desire to cooperate with this guy?

I consider myself to be possessed of an admirable work ethic. Oh, I'm as prone, as anyone else, to making mistakes (like being late for a shift), but on the job I am not lazy or irresponsible. Most evenings run smoothly. I efficiently serve my tables, finish my side duties, and help others if I've the opportunity. But these factors do not solely contribute to a seamless night. Employee morale is as necessary, to happy customers, as clean linen and well-prepared food.

I have had both, the experience of working in an environment conducive to practical jokes and the "laid back" attitude Secret so seems to despise, and working for an employer whose very presence creates tension among employees.

The latter experience usually lends itself to a hectic and disorganized shift, which customers are most certainly aware of. Feeling frazzled and disrespected by management is not the frame of mind anyone wishes to be in when approaching a table. Nor is is the frame of mind I would desire my server to approach me in, as a customer.

I'd rather be a Nightmare Hippie Girl than a Secret Hippie.