Musical Musings Inspired by a Merman

A merman? Yes, but not an Aquaman.

I have a tidbit of info to share, unrelated to the Service Industry. Is deviation from the overall purpose of my blog allowed? I think so -- it's my cyber party, and I'll do what I want to.

In my sidebar, under "Who am I reading online?," I have added a new link. If you found the movie Zoolander funny (I did), and you appreciate music (do I ever), check out "Music For Kids Who Can't Read Good."


Created by Taylor, this blog offers an exploration of amazing music. It is original in it's approach to reviewing artists, well written, and witty. Much of the music discussed in this blog is available for listen through Taylor's hyperlink diligence. Taste this forbidden fruit.

The shtick of my workplace is Celtic music. If I had my way, we'd be listening to Taylor's play lists at the pub. To the realization of this fantasy, I will not be waiting with bated breath.

Beautifully Unravelled

"Birth, and copulation and death.
That's all the facts when you come to brass tacks."
~ T.S. Eliot, "Fragment of an Agon"

Between these three, there is mystery.

My day has been Gestalt Aprons.

During one of my lectures this afternoon I was witness to a failed attempt to share a recording of T.S Eliot reciting his "Fragment of an Agon."

My professor's intention was thwarted by outdated technology. Foggy, brown strands of Eliot became ensnared within the reels of a portable stereo upon Mr. Prof's depression of 'play'. Regardless, my classmates and I were not to be deprived of poetic voice. For us, my instructor delivered a beautifully animated performance of "Agon."

After class, I offered my assistance in disentangling the cassette mess. I was taken up on my offer, and I was successful. In return my prof offered to repay me with a coffee. Coffee? But of course.

Together, we sat in William's Café casually chatting. And then.

Surrounded by floors of books, I was told that I should reconsider my decision to apply to the Faculty of Education, and ponder the alternative of pursuing graduated studies. If you've not ever been academically oriented, imagine this as the moment that you are capable of anything your huge, beating heart desires. You woke up yesterday morning to discover that you posses the ability to fly. You can freeze time. You have just found an invisibility cloak tucked into the folds of your grandfather's clothes. You have a mystery benefactor. And you are going to spend your life abroad, transparent as you choose in timelessness, flying while dining on Havarti and Shiraz.

Okay, I'm loosing myself, and possibly you.

To be told that I possess the ability to succeed at the graduate level is an incredible compliment. Financially, I don't know if this is plausible. But, I have decided to change my program (from a General to an Honours degree); allowing, at the least, possibility.

Perhaps one day I shall share the story of how my future was irrevocably altered because T.S. Eliot couldn't resist tangle. Because I can't resist tangle.

How am I going to apply this afternoon's serendipity to my weekend serving the masses? I am going to give my customers everything that they least expect. Give me a couple of days, and I'll let you know how this experiment goes. I hope that I don't get fired. I need to support myself with Service for a little longer than anticipated.

Synchronicity

“Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worse kind of suffering.”
- Paulo Coelho

I was once interviewed for a server's position by a young woman, who should not have been conducting interviews. At the time I did not know that her managerial role was to be nominal in the absence of the regular manager, who had taken a two-week hiatus in the Caribbean. Regardless, I was hired because on my resume I listed Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist among my favourite books. I kept the job for two years, and it provided me with the necessary experience to obtain future employment over the next decade.

If you've not ever read The Alchemist the synchronicity of my wee tale may, to you, appear elusive. "A fable about following your dream," reads Coelho's subtitle. The Alchemist is concerned with fate (vs. free will), love, luck, spiritual enlightenment, omens, and personal enlightenment (Wikipedia).

Coelho implicitly maintains that the concept of coincidence is just that, a concept. Our lives are not comprised of randomly isolated, and disconnected events; our moments are significantly intertwined. We exist within a universal complexity, which understands us more than we understand It.

Coelho addresses the pursuance of individual destiny as something integral to intrinsic fulfillment. I agree. I also agree with his analysis of fear.

"People are afraid to pursue their most important dreams, because they feel that they don't deserve them, or that they'll be unable to achieve them."

Personally, I won't live in fear because I don't believe anyone can. It is an oxymoron. You may die in fear, but you can't live in it.

Fear is death; confrontation is the only means of annihilating fear. There is no heroism in unhappiness, there is only sorrow.

“When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.”

No, I do not think that the universe conspired to aid me in some misconstrued mission to become a waitress, but I do think that there was a touch of serendipity at work in my acquisition of a long-ago interview.

In the composition of my resume, so many years ago, I was advised by a friend to omit the section in which I outlined my "Personal Interests." She meant well, but I disagreed. Ultimately I was hired based upon my willingness to breach formalized protocol, and share my list of preferred readings. An apparently small decision, which has led me to where I am now in my life.

My "dream?" I wish to teach at the secondary school level. English Literature (shock me shock me...). I've been afforded the opportunity to maintain a work schedule, which allows for the scheduling of university classes, and the financial means to support myself on a few shifts a week because I garnered experience within the Industry -- because once upon a time I included The Alchemist on my resume. Is this too much a stretch for you? It is not for me.

This afternoon I decide to wax about this subject because currently, I am re-reading Homeschooling, a collection of meditative, and poignant short stories written by Canadian author, Carol Windley.

Stories laden with synchronism.

Customary & Appreciated

In a recent e-mail to a friend, describing the premise of my blog, I explained that I've chosen to write about the service industry because I thought, after many years working within various contexts relevant, I'd have much to say. It has been tricky. I have not wanted to waste anyone's time bitching about lousy customers or poor tips. I've been striving to write about my thoughts in general, while still relating such musings to the industry.

I've done a fair job, I think, of avoiding the whining-waitress cliché for nearly three months. This post however, is about tipping.

My day began at six this morning after a indulgent four hours of sleep. I am a cyclic-insomniac. For weeks at a time I may operate with virtually no REM to sustain me because my waking hours are spent dreamily enough. I love to daydream. A pastime I believe must somehow compensate for my lack of "nightdreaming." Alternately, I experience sustained periods in which ten hours a night does not seem to suffice, but I think that this is because once taunted, I want more... sleep that is.

After spending fourteen hours at school, a few of them quite pleasurably, within myself I found not an iota of energy, or desire to bus it home. Lazy me, I opted to spend the extra nine dollars on a cab.

Upon paying my fare I asked for a specific amount of change in return, believing that I had left enough for a tip. As my driver counted coins I realized that I had performed some seriously poor math; inadvertently suggesting an intention to tip a paltry eighty-five cents. Now, I understand that not everyone considers tipping their cabbie, but as a server I think that if my delivery of a drink deserves a buck or two, the individual I've entrusted my wellbeing on the road with deserves at least the same. I corrected myself, and tipped the man.

I share with you this anecdote because I desire to demonstrate that there are times when the absence of a tip is an honest oversight.

And there are times when it is not. This video is eight minutes long, but watch it. Please. I was astounded. Oh, be forewarned: video contains partial nudity. '?' Yes, nudity. And not the sort that will leave you pining for more.

This woman is for real. And her sister is a waitress? Familial issues anyone? Possibly? No. I think just an utter lack of respect for her fellow human beings, and herself.

Although some may argue that her waiter did not react in the most professional manner, I must admit that I too have called customers out on not tipping. I have not ever chased anyone to the curb in order to complain, but I have, with my particular panache, been politely confrontational. I once had a "gentleman" who, after reassuring me that everything (including the service) was excellent, proceeded to justify his $4 tip on a $130 tab by explaining: "Well, that's just what I felt like tipping." To which I sweetly responded: "Well, I guess I know how I'll feel like serving you the next time I see you." Professional? Maybe not, but I never saw him again. And I'm not sorry.

Attempting to reason that a server "knows" what they've "gotten into" by accepting a waitressing position is simply unreasonable. Assuming you've not yet mastered the art of alchemy, cash needs to be made, right? Bills and all that fun stuff, which rides on the back of what it is to be self-aware. Ironic humans. We are interesting creatures, but creatures possessive of a survival instinct nonetheless. Sometimes you do what needs to be done in order to survive, and sometimes that involves taking what is available, when it is available. I work service because it is most conducive to my lifestyle. I am attending school because I am interested in self-betterment, because I love literature, and because well... I want to. My schedule is hectic and not easily adaptable to many other professions. Service is flexible. Does that mean that I don't deserve to be tipped? Because this is what I've chosen?

I'm dying to know what my readers think of this woman's rant. Please send me your comments.

Weary Memories

Iron & Wine - Weary Memory

Have you ever felt weary with memories? Not merely inundated by, but weary with?

Last week, sitting within a café which had once been the sole source of my income, I became weary. Worn by a reaffirmation of how arbitrarily lives are defined.

Reminiscing over stranger-ground beans, my internal monologue ran as such:

"Confined by these walls, I have worked. Worked when my life was so very different than it is now. The company which I chose to keep; the means by which I filled my off hours, so very different than now. Not regrettable, just different."

I enjoyed spending time in a place once familiar and somehow new again. I don't think that one may appreciate such an experience within many career venues.

Does one randomly return to the office of once upon a time, and contemplate the course of one's life while sipping filtered water from a Dixie cup? Probably not. But I suppose I'm not qualified to infer. I've never been an office temp. I've never been anything other than a waitress. Economically speaking. I've been many things, but I've never made my living outside of the service industry.

In a bizarre fashion, I have found myself privileged. I need no excuse, other than my severe predilection for caffeine, to return to the grounds of days past.

If you do not share my fortune, I recommend still returning. Revisit your past; understand your present; forge your future deliberately.

It is okay if your memories make you weary. Some of my best insights occur when I am in a state of exhaustion. Ribbons of boundaries fall to ankles, like discarded clothing in the heat of passion, leaving you vulnerable and ready.

What are you ready for?

The choice is yours.

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.

Eleanor Rigby at the Bar

"To love is to risk not being loved in return. To hope is to risk pain. To try is to risk failure, but risk must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing."
~Anonymous

I have a problem with alcohol, and no, I do not have a drinking problem. As one who has been neck deep in an industry which thrives upon the vices of others, I have witnessed too much destruction. Destruction of families, of hope, and of self-love.

My problem with liquor: the ease with which it destroys lives.

This week, we lost a beloved staff member. There was no terrible accident, at least not literally. Metaphorically however, it is a wreck. She was let go due to behavior deemed inappropriate; a direct consequence of her drinking. Not one specific episode, but a menage of messy moments over the course of months.

Before you dismiss me as a public service announcement crusader, let me first tell you that I do enjoy drinking, and yes, I've suffered my fair share of mean hangovers. I do however respect myself, and my loved ones. I value life, and I value the notion of personal responsibility.

I am a soft-hearted girl, and I am saddened by familiar long faces every weekend. Faces exhausted by their loneliness; worn with the avoidance, of their wearers, to confront the source of their solitude.

It is tough to be alone, when you feel alone; it is tougher still to feel alone, when surrounded by others. Yet, I see it everywhere. Individuals who come into the bar looking for something to fill their time, their emptiness. It is the hours wasted getting drunk that is creating the same void, which they are trying to fill. I think that for the most part, those to whom I am referring are aware of the counterproductive effects of their nightly sojourns to the taps.

It is not an abundance of ignorance, but a lack of strength, which maintains an addiction.

I am an angry-hearted girl, and I am pissed off with the dismissal of ruddy faced children, contained within the bodies of men and women. Repudiating responsibility; self-absorbed, not self-aware.

Life is about choices.

I am glum, and I am indignant to watch so many choose so poorly.

Silly Solution

Have you been waiting, since last Saturday, in rapt anticipation of this post? Sorry for the delay, but although I've won the midterm battle, I am not yet victor of the semester war. My exams are written, but the assignments keep coming, and coming.

Next Tuesday I must confront a phobia, statistically, more prevalent than the fear of death. Public speaking. To one of my classes, I will be presenting a discussion of Vincent Lam's collection of short stories, Bloodletting & Miraculous Cures.

Although, like the majority of the population, I find speaking in front of a group to be a nerve-racking experience, I have found a way of lessening my anxiety. I make my living speaking in front of relative strangers, and have found that if I tell myself frequently enough that speaking in front of a group of academic peers is no different than approaching a table, public speaking becomes less daunting.

Every time I don my apron I evoke a particular persona, which exists within the larger whole of what constitutes me as an individual. I draw upon my sense of humour, my experiences, and my particular world view when I interact with customers. I simply present these aspects of myself appropriate to my work environment. Why should the environment of the classroom be any different?

Here's how I 'trick' myself:

Before I may take the order of my 'table' of thirty (i.e., my classmates), I must first tell them about our 'daily special' (i.e., Lam's stories). Sound silly? Most definitely. Regardless, a technique which has been effective for me in the past.

This strategy may be of use to any of you who share experiences similar to mine. However, you need not be a server in order to apply my method, simply embrace your silly; use it to your advantage.

On the Other Side of the Apron

"The preparation of good food is merely another expression of art, one of the joys of civilized living."

- Dione Lucas

My past three weeks have been of a particular breed of masochistic. It is midterm season, to which I am referring. Sustaining myself with sandwiches and cereal, coffee and very little sleep, I've accomplished more in twenty one days than in the entire four months of my summer combined. I wrote my last exam on Tuesday; sat in a semi-cationic state on Wednesday, affording myself the luxury of doing absolutely nothing; and Thursday night, I spent in celebration.

How did I celebrate? By being on the other side of the apron.

I have spent much time in enlightening my readers upon my observations as a server, but now I would like to share who I am as a customer so that you may put my opinions within some sort of context.

"Naked As We Came," Iron & Wine

At about 8:30 pm, greeted with the melodic grace of Iron & Wine playing softly over speakers, I walked through the doors of
Three A Tasting Bar.

The restaurant was full with the exception of seating along the bar, at which a friend of mine was already ordering her second gin martini as she waited for me. As the glass was set down, Mitch offered me one of her olives; explaining that she had intended to save me one from the first drink, but had been unable. In her glass sat two plump queen olives, one stuffed with Gorgonzola and the other with a mild horseradish. Fishing an olive from the proffered well of gin, and taking a bite of salty wonder, I understood what Mitch had meant by "unable." It was delicious, and a great way to begin an evening which would extend for hours.

Suggestions intended to improve your experiences when dining out, which I have offered in past entries, I take to heart. More consistently than any other variable, I have emphasized time as a factor contributing to either a positive or negative dining experience. With no desire to condense our evening into a half-appreciated meal, Mitch and I ordered the "chef's mood," and sat back comfortably to enjoy our beverages and our conversation. For me, going out to eat at a restaurant should be different than what I may accomplish by cooking for myself, or by ordering in. It should be an event to which I dedicate myself to my companionship as well as the food being served.

In ordering the mood, our meal became an adventure with each new dish precisely explained by our server. We began with a potato-leek and roasted garlic soup; served with hand-rolled vegetarian spring rolls, complete with red curry vinaigrette for dipping. Our appetizer was followed by gyoza dumpling with ponzu sauce; a cranberry-mandarin salad topped with grilled salmon, caramelized onion, and carrot chips, and garnished with cream cheese and dill crostini.

Hungry yet?

As course upon course was delivered to us, each stressful midterm moment dissolved onto my palette.

We finished with grilled Rex sole in a tarragon cream sauce served abed a wild mushroom and asparagus risotto, and accompanied by grilled vegetables drizzled with a balsamic reduction. All this, and garlic-cheddar prawns.

Well, we didn't quite finish. Mitch and I opted to share warm apple pie and a slab of fig-apple bread pudding. Both were served with pumpkin mousse.

After a couple bites we each had to concede to the fact that we'd eaten more than we could comfortable hold. Are you familiar with reaching this point? The one when you know enough is enough, but you sometimes just can't stop your gluttonous evil twin because it tastes so damn good? We defeated those darker selves. Dessert went home with Mitch. Upon my insistence of course (I had won the left-overs the last time we dined together).

Although Three is owned and staffed by friends of mine, it has been one of my favourite establishments since well before such friendships were formed, and continues to be so. It is elegant, yet casual; small, but not cramped; and welcoming, but not overbearing. The food is astonishing. Three is my ideal dining experience, and one not to be missed if you've the opportunity. To my local readers, please treat yourself sometime.

And take your time...

A Place Where Everybody Knows

"...A box of chocolates and a long stemmed rose..."

-Leonard Cohen

Does Everybody know?

In her blog, "Lights, Camera, ... Strip?," Ellen Mace explores sexuality within the film industry. In her latest post, "Cheating? pphfff.. Who Cares? It's 'True Love'," Ellen implicitly poses the question: When is infidelity immoral?

Hmm... Does It count (i.e., is an action defined as cheating) if It's 'true love'? This is a metaphor, is it not?

How can love (an emotional response) be true (a philosophical concept)?

I'd like to play with Ms. Mace's metaphor, at the risk of inflating it to cumulonimbus proportions, and extend her question:

What if, for you, 'true love' were defined, not by the attributes of your high-school sweetheart, but by the features of your favorite watering hole? What if 'true love' were defined by the bartender serving you the dirtiest drinks; at the cheapest prices? In this context, is cheating wrong?


Before you judge me as an over-extender, allow me to fill any of you non-service kids in on a not-so-secret, but quite relevant truism, within the industry: Regulars often view spending their money in a place that they don't habitually frequent as a betrayal to their preferred establishment.

Sharing the pocket wealth, as a Regular, between a pocket full of places is acceptable; randomly sauntering up to the first available bar is not. So social etiquette goes, as a particular breed of insider.

Choose to believe me, or not, but Fidelity is alive; puffin' a smoke in the chilly October air with His beer warming on the bar. Ever patient, His beer awaits, under the watchful eye of His confidant; His liquid-lover pimp.

To a server, regulars are wonderful, essential, and (at times) a bit overbearing . Regulars and servers share a unique, love-hate relationship. Familiarity breeds contempt? I say it may also breed love. Intrusiveness however, conceals no love; it is nastiness through, and through.

In hitting the town, do you consciously gravitate to a place where you feel you can "get away?"

"Where everybody knows your name, and they're always glad you came?" Do "you wanna be where you can see, our troubles are all the same?"

I do.

When I choose to spend a night out imbibing, I do so in the company, not only of friends, but in the company of servers who give a shit about me.

My experience within the industry, has granted me insight. I am aware of the fact that my regular bartenders care about me, because I care about my Regulars as individuals.

I am however, also aware of The Line.

I am not entitled to the private details of my server's life simply by virtue of being a Regular. My server owes me nothing but service; if he/she chooses to offer me more the choice is not mine, but theirs to make.

Do I think that a Regular's opting for another waitress, or pub, is cheating? No. Unless said Regular is unaware of The Line, in which case the issue of betrayal becomes that of another human being's privacy.

Respect yourself; respect your fellow human being; respect The Line.

'S' is for server... 'S' is for safety

For me, the experience of discerning the line between when a customer is most likely to tip well, or not tip at all, is analogous to playing billiards. I don't know about you, but when shooting pool I'm sharpest at about three drinks. Sober, and I over-analyze; drunk, and I just get carelessly sloppy.

In the latest publication of Windsor's Magazine, entitled "the A -Z trade secrets issue," editor Derrick Ruston offers

"informative bits revealing the inside scoops from various professions including doctors, bartenders, and alligator wrestlers."

Mr. Ruston advises bartenders on the art of pouring drinks in a manner that provides customers with the sense that they are maximizing their booze-dollar. To servers, he supplies a suggestion on how to increase sales; maintaining that one should

"always make sure that the slowest drinker is constantly topped up."

Although I understand Ruston's reasoning, I do not necessarily agree with his philosophy. The issue I choose to question does not concern alcohol consumption per se, rather the benefits (or lack thereof) of keeping my customers drinking.

The biggest drinker is not always the biggest tipper.

My point? As a server, you've got to sell a few drinks otherwise there is no money to be made. But don't over-serve because, once inebriated, the ability of customers to determine tip-percentage often becomes too great a task.

I do not wish to convey that my only concern in over-serving alcohol lies in how much money I will earn. I raise the issue because my income depends upon my tips, as it does for many others within the service industry.

As a server awareness is essential not only to optimize gratuity, but also as a matter of safety. A concern well addressed by Jessie Jane in her post "Bartender Heroes and Other Amazing Tales."

Jane maintains that being a bartender

"comes with a host of other responsibilities beyond mixing up liquid deliciousness or playing therapist to the after-work crowd."

Bartenders and servers

"have a responsibility to our customers to provide a safe drinking environment. It's one of the reasons we can be personally held liable for serving underage drinkers, or serving intoxicated guests who then proceed to kill someone in a car accident."

My job may be frightening in ways never considered by individuals who have no experience within the industry. I do attempt to keep as close an eye as possible on who has had how much to drink, and which customers intend upon driving home from the pub. It is not always easy.

Please, tip your server and more importantly, take a cab if you've had too much. I know you know this. To you, I'm simply offering a reminder. Act upon those things you know in order to make wise choices.

If interested, I advise you to further explore Canadian Social Host Liability.

Oh, Mr. Robbins... thank you.

Do you recognize her?

I am the sort of person who does not open my mail for weeks. Pardon me, what I intend is: I do not 'check' my mail for weeks at a time, but as soon as I do, I read it. This tendency of mine extends into the virtual world as well.

Recently I opened an e-mail, sent to me over two weeks ago, which made my day. Maybe I should work on this tendency of mine? to allow the passage of time before acknowledging intention... maybe I am an overly analytical girl.

I am lucky enough, in my life, to share in the experience of friendships which blow my mind. I am lucky enough to have people in my life, who attempt to make my days better; by whatever increment.

Wonderful friend #1 achieved such a feat (i.e, dang great day, 'cause I felt some love) in her mailing me an excerpt of Tom Robbins latest publication. Ms. Gill knows me. She knows who and what I love, and she knows what I've been attempting to accomplish through my With Bated Breath posts. She sent me some material. via hotmail, to muse over. Material she thought I might choose to share.

I've alway been good in the sandbox. I like to share.

Tom Robbins is one of my most favorite contemporary authors. He's not for everyone (who is?), but if you like him, he's not likable; he's lovable. I love his work.

Wild Ducks Flying Backwards is an anthology of brief writings over Robbins' career, in which he offers an exposition of, in his words, the "Genius Waitress."

"Of the genius waitress, I now sing."

Sing Tom, sing.

"As a type, the genius waitress is sweet and sassy, funny and smart; young, underestimated, fatalistic, weary, cheery (not happy cheerful: there’s a difference and she understands it), a tad bohemian, often borderline alcoholic, frequently pretty (though her hair reeks of kitchen and bar); as independent as a cave bear (though ever hopeful of “true love”) and, above all, genuine."

Mr. Robbins has much more to say about the Genius Waitiress, but what do I have to say?

While Tom's interpretation is simultaneously humorous, and poignant; subjectively romantic, and objectively perceptive; he has forgotten something.

The Genius Waitress muti-tasks like a mo-fo. The Genius Waitress has the memory of a thousand-year old elephant. She approaches a table of ten without a pen; she balances her life as precariously, yet efficiently, as she balances entrées upon her forearm.

Grant me arrogance, and understand that I am not an arrogant person. I am balancing a tri-life.

Mother.
Student.
Waitress.

It's tricky. It is rewarding on all fronts.

I'm a genius?
Wowza.
Thanks Tom.

"I celebrate myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you."
- Walt Whitman
Leaves of Grass [Song of Myself]

D & D Destiny

Hmm, an interesting weekend for me. Yourself?

Are you familiar with the term 'Chew and Screw'?

My employers have created a brilliantly democratic means of dealing with customers who pull the ol' dine and dash. At the close of each shift, every employee contributes a dollar to what we refer to as the "D & D Fund." In this way, if I get stiffed, I don't get stiffed. Know what I mean?

Every once in a while, a beer or two may be consumed by an individual who does not 'remember' to follow their last sip with a payment. I do loose out (possibly) on a tip, but I am not responsible for covering said unpaid tab because it is covered by our D & D Fund. Technically, I do pay the bills of walk-out-strangers, but a buck a shift for a couple of weeks has far less of an impact upon my budget than forking out a lump sum. I am happy with our system.

Last night, our system saved me $124.97; the largest F-off I've ever personally dealt with.

A table of six. Upstairs. Drinks, appetizers, entrées; a pitcher of water, and a couple of jokes. All was going well... so I thought, until I climbed the flight and a half to do a 'last check' before bringing the check.

There goes my tip. There goes $125 to the pub.

Have you read what I have to say about Karma? Well, I've not been monetarily reimbursed, but I feel that, tonight, I reimbursed someone else with something of far greater value.

After a long shift, I paid out a table using the wrong table number. What that meant was that a couple, paying by credit card, tallied up a rather small tab, and paid a rather large one; the difference being $22.99. They signed the credit receipt handed, by me, to them; saying nothing. I realized my mistake and returned to the table to explain myself and return $23, which did not belong to me.

Keeping the difference between what was owed and what was paid certainly would have compensated for last night's loss. Money, money, money-wise. And that's about all. I felt good about myself, as a human being, for making the choice that I made, and I hope that I passed on a grain of trust in humanity to my customers tonight. They seemed surprised that I owned up to my error; and despite my initial screw-up, they tipped me really well.

As for the six that walked out, my co-workers and I have determined that in the next life they will be 'Lifers' (i.e., servers who by necessity, not choice, never leave the industry) in horribly cheap, roadside stops. They will not have D & D benefits; they will be stiffed frequently. Petty? Maybe. Cathartic to imagine? Absolutely. But I don't really wish such an existence upon anyone... Wilde has taught me that I should be cautious of such fantasies.

Watch your thoughts, for they become words.
Watch your words, for they become actions.
Watch your actions, for they become habits.
Watch your habits, for they become character.
Watch your character, for it becomes your destiny.
- Oscar Wilde

"Hyperculture"

"No man in a hurry is quite civilized."
- Will Durant

I had the privilege, many years ago, of studying under Dr. Stephen Bertman; now retired Professor of Classical and Modern Languages, Literatures, and Civilizations. Dr. Bertman possessed an amazing ability to imbue his students with his deep passion for the Classics.

And he taught us to observe squirrels as they obscurely navigated the hectic University campus; content in the structure of their lives, and immune to human prescriptions of time. The squirrels we watched from the ivied, November windows of Dillon Hall did not seem to 'stress' over chestnut deadlines. Governed by purpose and instinct, they allowed Nature to dictated the pace of their lives.

Proposing that we live in a "nowist culture," in his book, Hyperculture: The Human Cost of Speed, Dr. Bertman explores the erosion of "fundamental values" as a consequence of the "accelerated pace of society."

"A nowist culture [...] does not cultivate patience as a virtue. Its emphasis, instead, is on speed and technical efficiency."

This is an extraordinarily interesting book, and a read I highly recommend.

It is with Dr. Bertman's propositions in mind that I ask you to consider at which point in your life have you encountered a dining experience which was less than favourable, and why? Although inaccurate orders, cranky wait-staff, and/or poor atmosphere may all be valid complaints, the issue I most often confront as a server is irritability with speed of service.

"In our society, speed is celebrated as if it were a virtue in itself."
- Jerry Mander

My chest, hidden beneath my Guinness t-shirt, is not emblazoned with a lightning

bolt. Neither Barry Allen, nor Wally West, am I. I am however, capable of providing efficient and attentive service. Yep, even without superpowers. I am not a slow waitress, but I am human. As such, I do not possess the ability to predict a walk-in of ten, when a keg of beer is going to blow, or when a cook may (god forbid, make a mistake?) overcook an item, thus having to restart an order. The list of reasons why a customer may feel they've waited 'too long' is numerous and varied.

Admittedly biased, I do not ask Why the wait?, but Why the rush?

Here's a novel idea: When dining out, enjoy yourself. Value the time you are spending within the company of family or friends. Waiting on your meal? Have another beer, or, if you're starving, ask for something to nibble on. I don't mind; I'll gladly bring you some rolls or a cup of soup.

Relax.

I feel that impatience over 'wasted' time is counterproductive. Time cannot be lost, but opportunity may be. The opportunity to live as a spiritually fulfilled individual; the opportunity to create pleasant memories, may dissolve if one allows otherwise recreational moments to be overshadowed by the constrictions of schedules and expectations of speed.

Harvesting Love

The risk it takes to remain tight inside the bud is more painful than the risk it takes to blossom. —Anais Nin.

Do you do the post-holiday boozin'?

This evening I served a friendly, but wiped-looking couple. After a couple of drinks and some appetizers, with me, they shared the source of their worn eyes. They'd hosted Thanksgiving dinner for their grown children, and their grandchildren, earlier in the evening. They showed up in my section ready for 'Us Time'.

Half an hour later another couple came through the front door looking equally exhausted.

"Wow, you guys look tired," I greeted them.
"Yah, Thanksgiving dinner," Mr. Customer responded with a grin.
"Ah, belly-tired, or done-with-the-family-we're-ready-for-a-drink tired?"
"Done with the family," his sleepy grin widened.

'Tis the season - Canadian Thanksgiving that is. Canadians apparently celebrate a successful harvest, whereas American Thanksgiving is acknowledged to remember the Pilgrims and the 'settlement' of the 'New World'.

The most memorable Thanksgiving feast that I shared was the autumn that I had roommates. I gave thanks to my friends; we gave thanks for each other.

I've only once in my life shared my living space with roommates. At the time I was working in a wee coffee shop earning server's wage, which was a whopping $5.95/hr. (if I remember correctly), and pulling in a monster $15-$30/shift in tips. Rental of a one bedroom apartment, plus hydro, was beyond my means.

Sitting at Pogo's one evening bemoaning my situation over drinks, which I really couldn't afford, I ran into a friend that I've known since high-school. He, as well, was burying his woes in the bottom of a pint (I think alcohol is like oil; it settles on top and funks up your belly). He was about to loose the waterside duplex he'd been renting for three years because his roommates were moving out; I was about to loose my pricey shoe-box of an apartment. He needed a roommate; I needed somewhere to live. Ta-Da.

A month and a half later I moved into that sweet duplex on Riverside Drive. Eventually, to me,

my roommates became Fish One and Fish Two (an amalgamation Dr. Suess'
Thing One & Thing Two, and One Fish, Two Fish; Red fish, Blue fish).

Both Fish worked multiple service sector jobs; Fish Two was also studying at Windsor. Other than passing in and out on our way to various commitments, we didn't see much of each other.

Until...

My Fish, Myself, and Orangina (a best friend on her way to Nelson, B.C. two days from our Thanksgiving) celebrated Thanksgiving three weeks after the fact because it was the first opportunity we had to spend all together; all at once. About 8:30pm Fish Two pulled his Tofurky feast, complete with tempeh drumsticks, out of the freezer and got down to it. Three hours later, a bit gleeful on some red wine, we loaded our vegetarian-friendly plates and settled in to watch
"A Life Less Ordinary."
[Disclaimer: If you've not seen the movie, link may be a scene/finale spoiler]
Dang super movie; if you've not seen it you should. I think so at least.

When I say "loaded," I mean loaded. Brown sugar, buttered yams; green beans, with almond slivers; stuffing; scones made from scratch, and baked fresh; tempeh (so good); tofurkey, and cranberry sauce; mashed potatoes with garlic, and gravy. Loaded. I probably cannot do justice to the contentment that filled our living room (Candlelight was involved, if that helps).

I love my family so much. My family loves me. A lot. But they've never quite understood my decision to become vegetarian, and they certainly don't know how the hell to feed me at gatherings. My mom has been making a greater and greater effort over the years; I adore her all the more for it, but broccoli and potatoes a meal does not make.

The Riverside feast was the first time, post-veg-head, that I shared a holiday meal in which I could partake in everything on the menu. And, I love my friends. It was the perfect giving of thanks.

My point? Do not succumb to superficial, socially prescribed 'rules'. Do not exhaust yourself over a holiday. Love 'em up. Love 'em by how YOU define love.

Whether you celebrate on Monday, or a month from Monday, give thanks to the people that you share your meal with.

Happy Thanksgiving (and Happy Birthday, to me - that's kinda self-absorbed, but whatever, it's my birthday).

Harvest some love however you may see fit.

Last of September

I've been attempting to utilize my experience within the service industry as a conversational catalyst. Sharing anecdotes as a vehicle by which I may delve into a wide array of personal concerns and interests. Although still in my blogging stages of infancy, I feel that I have achieved a degree of thematic consistency throughout my entries. Today however, I am struggling with how to express myself, while still maintaining integrity to this blog.

Today is the anniversary of my father's death. I wish to pay him homage in some small way, even if to an unknown audience, so I've chosen to share a story I wrote shortly after he died. Perhaps my catharsis may be yours as well.

Douglas Christopher Towers ~ April 11, 1953 - Oct. 1, 2004

A simplistic man may not necessarily be one synonymous with a man of simplicity. My Dad was a man of simplicity. Intelligent, articulate, ridiculous, silly, and charming. Soft spoken, yet stubborn. Patient, yet competitive. His name is Doug.

Last of September, I did not write because of my experiences within the industry (i.e., service), but my experiences certainly shaped how I wrote it. I am not 'Alice', but Alice is a whole lot of me.

Last of September

She was born into a family with bad teeth and bad eyes. Alice was, on both accounts however, the exception. No dental debt owed to anyone, nor accruing optometrist fees. Her ivories had miraculously sprouted row-evenly-upon-row. As for those peepers, nature had been generous in that only the green had been passed through the genes. Hers, greenest once evoked. Whether it be melancholy or mischief, when passion struck the flint within her, it was her eyes that sparked something surreal.

The difference between her green and that of the rest of her family was that Alice looked through to the world unencumbered. Unaided, unabated. Twenty-twenty jewels nestled within her sockets; as opposed to the rest of her family, obliged to contend with perception enhanced only through the use of various filters. Be they of the thick-crafted, 'pop-bottle' variety, or the flimsy genre, saline soaked in plastic webs upon a bedside table while the eyes they served slept - the lenses were necessary for clarity to all but she. Clarity seemed not her problem, rather the fact that often she felt stung by it. Her acute, specific sense of vision, blinding at times. Perhaps one could argue, feebly, that this was the reason she appreciated liquor. Without a definable physiological requirement she had found, groping through youth, a filter of her own. A smart girl with poor strategies.

It is the last day of September. A Thursday. The film of autumn slowly descending. Trees just shy enough in their turning to awaken anticipation and curiosity. In a week from tomorrow she will be twenty-nine. The last of her decade's birthday celebrations.

She had closed the bar last night and had set neither an alarm, nor an agenda for her day off. It is sometime after two p.m. that she is awakened by the digital ring of her cell phone. Why she hasn't heard the phone from the other room may be attributable to the late-night routine she has developed over many years. Alice does not usually find Sleep a willing participant. She is beginning to disappoint herself with things which she relies upon; wishing she were strong enough for hobbies over habits. It is for this reason that Alice finds herself, in her work, not desensitized, but paying increasingly particular attention to her female clientele. The women she watches are not too unrealistic a stretch from where she may find herself, sooner than she cares to acknowledge. Alice is not concerned with a romantic vision of the tragic-once-was-beauty, lost to circumstances beyond personal control. It is women of weakness she has been watching. Women who bemoan their lives. Failing in sloppy innuendoes and pathetic attempts at retribution. Women who do not choose to live up to the choices that they have made; scuttling to hide consequences within elaborate charades of regret. Woefully adorned in self-pity; bejeweled in dull, languidly intellectual idioms. Queen fools, perched on their bar stools; lapping at the free booze, offered by the fool's fools. Lapping at the neck of false prospect. Lonely fuckers. She is lonely too, but she won't do that.

Alice fumbles for the phone on the floor. She fumbles again for the 'talk' button, all the while negotiating the civil war brewing between her brain and her eye-lids.

"Hello?" she offers in a grainy voice.

"Oh my God. Oh, Alice."

His voice pierces through the static of her cheap phone and peels through the static in her head. The tone of her name, evocative of neither endearment nor casualness, plucks at a warning chord within. Her name, perched precariously upon panic. This is no social mid-day ring. She squints at the glare of the sky and the water outside of her window. Alice, a little unsteady on one elbow, props her head within her right palm. She waits.

"God, I'm so glad I finally got you. I've been trying your phone. I've been trying your cell. Your mom called me. You need to get to the hospital. I can pick you up. When can you be ready?" The single, longest word in human history.

"Is it my dad or my grandma?" she asks, eyes wide in the instant of fear before realization. The simplicity of the question traveling through some far, hollow space; reaching her brother-in-law on the other end of the line.

"It's your dad," Thomas responds very softly.

The echo of tears spilt, audible to her now. With Tom's response, the birth and death of plump, blurry babes muddles Alice's view. Outside, the blue of the sky becomes that of the water; the gleam of the sun on the river becomes that of the sky. Pulled in strands of light through her window, the bedroom appears to be melting with everything else. Tree tops and water-sky. Her room and herself. All come barreling back toward her. Yanked through space. A vacuum fueled by adrenaline. She feels the whack, as if struck by matter, and all that has ever mattered.
"I'll be ready in twenty minutes," her voice a little more alert and less restrained than it had been fifteen seconds earlier.

"I'm on my way." Tom is sobbing now.

"Thank you."

Alice hangs up and pauses briefly. A last glance at her life, intact as she knows it. She suddenly feels frantic and begins leaping from room to room, crying and disorganized. Washing her face. Grabbing her wallet and her phone and her make-up. Stuffing the whole mess into her bag. Snatching clean pants as she darts back to the washroom. She is simultaneously brushing her teeth, taking a pee, and changing her clothes. Speaking nonsense aloud in her empty apartment to steady her breathing.

Seventeen minutes since she had hung up the phone. She has got to get downstairs. Her answering machine is flashing red. Everything about her feels as though it is flashing red. Alice scrambles with the sleeves of her jacket and hits 'play'. A robotic, vaguely female voice responds, "Thursday, 10:31 a.m.", followed by: "Alice, it's mom," her voice foreign, crisp, and sad; all mushed together. "You need to get to the hospital to say 'good-bye'."

Good-bye. Good-bye? Fucking Christ!

She hasn't spoken to her mother in ten months. It has been longer since she last heard her father's voice. Thursday. Last of September. He is dying.
She is locking the door. She is in the elevator. She is outside, stumbling toward the car idling for her. She is watching her reflection creep closer in the passenger window. She looks unfamiliar to herself; outside of her own life.

"This is not, this is not, this is not
really happening...
You bet your life it is,
you bet your life it is..."

Amos is singing and re-singing and singing, for her only. Alice reaches for the door handle. It is cold. She hears the springs of the hinges and the song in her head. The sun is out. It is a gorgeous afternoon and this strikes her as strange.

Alice's eyes have never appeared more green.

Tom pulls away from the curb.

-Thanks for allowing me to share.

m

Lost & Found Karma

Often, I feel as though I live according to a pattern of organized chaos. I have a rather acute memory for detail yet, at times, my dreams and actual conversations become muddled. I may confuse days of the week, but I never miss deadlines. I am prone to loosing things, but I am not a forgetful person. There is an underlying order to my disorder. Long before chaos theory was being discussed by physicists, the butterfly effect was eloquently (albeit sans terminology) addressed by Virgina Woolf:

"Multiplicity becomes unity, which is somehow the secret of life."
- Virgina Woolf, Jacobs Room

I too believe in the interconnectedness of lives; existent unity between seemingly random events. I believe that we exist within a universe of interdependence.

Instead of hitting the 'snooze' button on my alarm this morning, I inadvertently turned it off (the butterfly alights). Waking up two hours later than I had intended, I found myself running late for an appointment. I had meant to catch a bus. Instead I phoned for a cab. In the process of scrambling from the cab to the curb I unwittingly left something behind. For the forth time inside of two years, this afternoon, I lost my wallet.

It was forty minutes before I discovered my own neglect. Phoning the cab company left me with little hope. Apparently, the driver's search for the artifacts of my identity (and my eighty-some-odd dollars) was fruitless. Upon returning home, I phoned again. Hope springs eternal and is, on the rare occasion, rewarded. The woman attending the dispatch line informed me that Driver #223 had found my wallet under the back seat. Phew!!!

In addition to unnecessarily spiking my adrenaline and stress levels, I also got myself to thinking. Thinking about all of the things that I've found, after hours, working in bars. Jewelry, wallets, purses, gloves, scarves, sweaters, jackets, keys... the list goes on and on. I wondered how many of these items actually made the journey 'home'. I have never pilfered a misplaced belonging because if I were to do so I would nullify the opportunity of its return and, for me, Karma is real. I propose that 'chance' is not a linear, unidirectional force. Neither is integrity. Many a lost article have been returned to me. I've not been lucky, I've been honest. The Universe winks and reciprocates my gestures.

"The effects of all deeds actively create past, present and future experiences, thus making one responsible for one's own life, and the pain and joy it brings to others."

As an industry worker, be you a driver, a bartender, a server... whatever, respect your customers. As an individual, respect your fellow person. When you return a lost item you are writing someone else's happy ending. Finders, keepers; loosers, weepers? Bullshit. Unless you are one to believe that a monetary value may be placed upon another's joy. In that case, I recommend questioning your own values.

Nearly eight hours after entering his vehicle, Driver #223 met me again. He drove to my place of work to return my wallet. The fact that my money was gone somehow seemed irrelevant in the face of a man who had gone out of his way to return something, which to him was meaningless. Maybe he took the money you might argue? He might have. But I prefer the mystical to the cynical point of view. In my world, someone bought themselves some negative Karma with my eighty-some-odd dollars today. I had a good day.

Do We Ever Really Know?

Alone in a small café and enjoying a pot of peppermint tea, while reading David Bergen's The Time In Between, I was unable to maintain my concentration this afternoon. Lines of print became entangled with the strands of a nearby conversation. Just as some things, once know, cannot be un-known, there are some conversations which cannot be not heard.

Chattering at the café owner in order to pass the time while waiting on her take-out order, a young woman provided a rather detailed account of her academic pursuits. This woman, majoring in psychology and currently in the fourth year of her undergraduate studies, stated that she is considering becoming a midwife. Yep, you read me correctly.

What struck me most was her declaration that "decisions are scary." Yeah, they are. More frightening is not making choices. She thinks she could "do" her Ph.D and work as a psychologist but she knows that she doesn't "love it."

"I could do my Ph.D but, I don't know... I just don't love it. Decisions are scary. I don't know. I just don't know what I want to be."

I have an honours degree in Psychology. And a minor in Classical Studies. At twenty-four, I also didn't know what I wanted (do we ever, really?). So, I 'took some time' to 'figure things out'. 'Time' became a job at a small vegan restaurant, followed by a couple of trendy coffee-shop bars, and then a waitressing position at a Celtic pub. Seven years disappeared.

I've met great people and I've met assholes. I've had dreams and nightmares of shifts. There have been nights I've made as much as $30/hr. There have been weeks that my grocery list was as long as peanut butter, bread, and eggs (oh, so cheap and versatile). Like much of an average life, waitressing is unpredictable.

Last autumn, I enrolled myself back into the University of Windsor. I've chosen a passion. I know what I love and, finally, 'what I want to be when I grow up'. Years from now I do not want to be waitressing. I would like to be teaching English to high-school students. Ironically, the owner of the little place that I was sipping tea and trying to read in, he has a degree in accounting. I'm in school in order to eventually get out of the industry; he prefers the industry to his area of study. Neither good nor bad choices, just personal. Decisions may be daunting but a little fear may motivate a long way. Especially when the goal is also a love.