I have been told by supervisors on more than one occasion that I lacked a "sense of urgency." I wonder, as I lay on the couch now and ponder their words, just what they meant. The first time I heard these words came when I worked as a busboy for Red Lobster restaurant.
I remember the first table that I cleared. I walked slowly to the table and picked up each glass and piece of silverware individually, raising them up close, inspecting them, then dropping them into the gray rubber tub. Then I wiped the table in wide, careful arcs. I brushed out the chairs gently, stepping back to assess the job. It took about 20 minutes. Afterwards, I looked into the tub with satisfaction and counted up the booty.
"Yyyyep, I cleared 6 glasses, 4 plates, and 16 pieces of silverware."
Then I swaggered off to the next table, toting that gray tub like it was a suitcase of 100 dollar bills.
The manager had a little talk with me about my speed of service. He stated that I did my job appropriately, but that I needed to work on a "sense of urgency." I didn’t grasp the exact meaning of his words at the time.
Later, but before my exit interview, I saw an ad in the paper for my restaurant. It read:
"Looking for a busboy who knows how to hustle."
I recall reading the post (slowly) and thinking,
"Hu. But I’m the busboy. I wonder why they want another one. And why do they want one who can dance?"
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
Oprah's Free Chicken
Not long ago, a few months really, my mother got very excited by something she heard about Oprah Winfrey and free chicken. For many days, all discussions with my mom involved Oprah's free chicken. We discussed if the rumor might be true and if there was, in fact, any free chicken. We conducted Internet research, polled friends and other family members, we even tried to call Oprah. As you might guess, one can not easily "call Oprah." We finally determined that there was in fact free chicken from Oprah. She had not cooked the said chicken, but it was available from KFC.
On a bright Saturday afternoon, a few days after the "Oprah's free chicken" rumor started, we went to KFC. The place was packed. We presented coupons that my mom had forced me to locate online. I used the word "forced" but I had been happy to locate the chicken coupons, in order to prevent my mother's suicide. Mom was now very excited. She felt a connection, somehow, with Oprah. She was so proud and she smiled broadly as she handed the manager the coupons for Oprah's free chicken. You can imagine how distraught she was when they told us that they had run out of Oprah chicken. They had regular chicken, yes, but any chicken having to do with Oprah, or with the word "free" was not available.
We were instructed to fill out a form, after which another coupon would be mailed to us. Upon bearing the NEW coupon, we could then procure some of Oprah's free chicken. Flash forward to last week... Mail man arrives. My mother, according to neighbors, faints at the mailbox. The new coupons from KFC had arrived. A new bond with Oprah had been established and she was (we were) one step closer to Oprah's free chicken.
On Wednesday of this week, we entered the same KFC. We were both bolder this time, somehow more determined. We had the Official, "for real" for real coupon which entitled us to some of Oprah's mouthwatering, show stopping, no holds barred, FREE Fu***** chicken! (my words, not Mom's.) This time the manger graciously accepted the coupons. As with most coupon though, there was fine print. We were subject to the managers discretion on the pieces of chicken, as well as the sides. My mother was in luck, she got a wing and a breast, along with mashed potatos and cole slaw. This would have been her perfect choice! Oh, they threw in a biscuit. Not only did we get free and delicious chicken touted by Oprah Winfrey, along with two side orders, but we got a biscuit!
To Be Continued...
I borrowed the above image from The Count, WITHOUT permission. If they sue me I will be greatly disheartened, as I have no money to pay them with.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Number 2
...I was once caught in the women's restroom by accident. I had an emergent bowel condition and rushed into what I thought to be the correct, gender specific, facility. I had just sat down for the job, when two children entered the restroom. I should add that kids do not go into the bathroom to actually use the bathroom. They go in to play, to run the water, to press the hand dryer button repeatedly, and to make plans. They treat the stall as a boardroom or clubhouse, where extensive child related plans are laid out.
As I listened to these children's antics, I noticed something strange about the voices. They were awfully high pitched. Why would little girls be in the men's room, I wondered.
I was still focused on the task at hand when I cleared my throat. As I did, the children stopped talking. Then I heard whispering. That's when I became concerned. What if I was in the wrong place? Were there urinals? Had I distinctly seen urinals? I was starting to sweat. This could be bad. This could be very bad.
It was winter and I had my coat hanging over the latch on the door. It covered the crack between the door so no one could see in. I moved the coat slightly. Peeking out I noticed two very effeminate boys. They were boys right?
When I finished, I really had no choice. I had to leave the stall. I stepped out, unafraid. I walked to the sink to wash my hands.
"What are you doing in here," they asked in unison. Holy shit, these are girls, I thought.
I felt queasy. What was I supposed to say, that I'm dumb? That I can't read signs on bathroom doors? That I'm from another country where unisex restrooms are the norm? My mind raced for a moment.
"I'm supposed to be here. I'm with public works, sanitation, the toilet bureau. They pay me to test these facilities." I said this in a very official tone.
"They pay you to poop?" one girl asked.
"Yes," I said, gravely serious, "everywhere I can."
As I listened to these children's antics, I noticed something strange about the voices. They were awfully high pitched. Why would little girls be in the men's room, I wondered.
I was still focused on the task at hand when I cleared my throat. As I did, the children stopped talking. Then I heard whispering. That's when I became concerned. What if I was in the wrong place? Were there urinals? Had I distinctly seen urinals? I was starting to sweat. This could be bad. This could be very bad.
It was winter and I had my coat hanging over the latch on the door. It covered the crack between the door so no one could see in. I moved the coat slightly. Peeking out I noticed two very effeminate boys. They were boys right?
When I finished, I really had no choice. I had to leave the stall. I stepped out, unafraid. I walked to the sink to wash my hands.
"What are you doing in here," they asked in unison. Holy shit, these are girls, I thought.
I felt queasy. What was I supposed to say, that I'm dumb? That I can't read signs on bathroom doors? That I'm from another country where unisex restrooms are the norm? My mind raced for a moment.
"I'm supposed to be here. I'm with public works, sanitation, the toilet bureau. They pay me to test these facilities." I said this in a very official tone.
"They pay you to poop?" one girl asked.
"Yes," I said, gravely serious, "everywhere I can."
Shave Your Lip, Genius!
Most of us know that there is left brain thinking and right brain thinking. Get this though. There is the possibility of synchronizing your left and right hemispheres, so that you will become (for only 29.95) a genius. I purchased some Brain sync CDs a few years ago to fine tune the process, to help me develop psychic abilities, and to further my spiritual development. The first time I listened to the Cds, it was a very enlightening experience. It was almost an out of body type thing. I honestly went to different places, saw different things, it was intense.
To further my development - and I thought up this idea on my own; hey I’m no slouch - I started practicing writing with my left hand. I’m right handed of course, though I need to practice with the right as well, as many people can’t read my writing. So one night, after about 45 minutes with the tapes (I just gave my age away, earlier I called them ‘CDs’, Ha!) So after 45 minutes or so with the tapes, I began writing with my left hand. I wrote, initially, simple things, the alphabet, my name, whatever. Then, as I got better, I started to write the following:
“I am a genius, I am a genius, I am a genius.”
I kept on and on. Like a kid in trouble at school who has to write on the blackboard. I must have written it 100 times (OCD, untreated, hee-hee.) After the lesson, I decided to keep the paper, as proof of my genius abilities.
By the way, I like paper. I don’t like killing trees and I do recycle, but the tangible aspect of pen and paper… I can’t put it into words now. That would require another entry. Anyway, a few weeks later I was shuffling some papers around. I needed to write myself a note. I am, as with paper, addicted to notes. They help to organize ones thoughts. In spite of the subsequent clutter, pen, paper, and notes to myself, serve me very well.
So I found what I thought to be, at the time, a blank piece of paper. I wrote a note to myself, a reminder. I wrote:
“Shave your lip.”
This was a reminder to trim my goatee. The mustache part had grown slightly out over my upper lip, looking like tiny spider legs or something, just peaking out over my lip. Yuk! Since I’m a procrastinator, I did not shave the lip right away. That was the purpose of the note; to remind me to do it later. I always say,
“Put off till tomorrow everything you possibly can, so today you can listen to brain sync tapes and watch VH1 specials.”
Another couple weeks goes by and I find the note to trim my mustache, except this time I notice a faint impression, clearly some writing on the other side of the paper. I flip it over and what do I find? Proof of my blended mind, my synced up hemispheres, as well as proof of my own genius. We always believe what we read, right? Well there it was
“I am a genius.”
I had a brief moment of elation, then I wondered
“Did I ever shave my lip?” (Trim the mustache)
I look in the mirror to see, what appeared to be tarantula legs, growing, crawling from my upper lip, reaching over, slightly downward.
“Oh dear God help me. Here I am a bona fide genius and I look like this?”
It was at this time I decided to start growing my hair out, long like it was when I was teen, but I would perm it, up high and wild, all crazy. I would become Einstein. So, when I go gray, watch out! It’s the crazed look I’ll be going for. And to heck with shaving or trimming the upper lip. A true genius does not worry with such trifles!
To further my development - and I thought up this idea on my own; hey I’m no slouch - I started practicing writing with my left hand. I’m right handed of course, though I need to practice with the right as well, as many people can’t read my writing. So one night, after about 45 minutes with the tapes (I just gave my age away, earlier I called them ‘CDs’, Ha!) So after 45 minutes or so with the tapes, I began writing with my left hand. I wrote, initially, simple things, the alphabet, my name, whatever. Then, as I got better, I started to write the following:
“I am a genius, I am a genius, I am a genius.”
I kept on and on. Like a kid in trouble at school who has to write on the blackboard. I must have written it 100 times (OCD, untreated, hee-hee.) After the lesson, I decided to keep the paper, as proof of my genius abilities.
By the way, I like paper. I don’t like killing trees and I do recycle, but the tangible aspect of pen and paper… I can’t put it into words now. That would require another entry. Anyway, a few weeks later I was shuffling some papers around. I needed to write myself a note. I am, as with paper, addicted to notes. They help to organize ones thoughts. In spite of the subsequent clutter, pen, paper, and notes to myself, serve me very well.
So I found what I thought to be, at the time, a blank piece of paper. I wrote a note to myself, a reminder. I wrote:
“Shave your lip.”
This was a reminder to trim my goatee. The mustache part had grown slightly out over my upper lip, looking like tiny spider legs or something, just peaking out over my lip. Yuk! Since I’m a procrastinator, I did not shave the lip right away. That was the purpose of the note; to remind me to do it later. I always say,
“Put off till tomorrow everything you possibly can, so today you can listen to brain sync tapes and watch VH1 specials.”
Another couple weeks goes by and I find the note to trim my mustache, except this time I notice a faint impression, clearly some writing on the other side of the paper. I flip it over and what do I find? Proof of my blended mind, my synced up hemispheres, as well as proof of my own genius. We always believe what we read, right? Well there it was
“I am a genius.”
I had a brief moment of elation, then I wondered
“Did I ever shave my lip?” (Trim the mustache)
I look in the mirror to see, what appeared to be tarantula legs, growing, crawling from my upper lip, reaching over, slightly downward.
“Oh dear God help me. Here I am a bona fide genius and I look like this?”
It was at this time I decided to start growing my hair out, long like it was when I was teen, but I would perm it, up high and wild, all crazy. I would become Einstein. So, when I go gray, watch out! It’s the crazed look I’ll be going for. And to heck with shaving or trimming the upper lip. A true genius does not worry with such trifles!
Monday, February 23, 2009
Fat Ass?
I recently re-connected with an old friend. We had stopped talking initially, as I recall, because I had said something foolish, or cruel, perhaps both. We decided to let bygones be bygones and to remain friends. This gets me thinking though, about an argument that I had some years ago with an ex-girlfriend. Gets me thinking about the things we say when we’re mad, and why we say them.
During the beginning of the relationship she adored me (isn’t this always the case in the beginning?) She told me how handsome she thought I was. I reciprocated the sentiment and we would spend hours staring into each others eyes. I know this is getting sappy but bear with me. I’m reaching a point, sort of.
Towards the end of the relationship things changed (don’t they always change towards the end?) We were having a little tiff about something or other and, out of God’s own, wide clear blue sky, she hollers out:
“Fat Ass!”
The argument was not a severe one. Certainly we had not reached the point of name calling. Yet she drew first blood. And boy what a stinger! I had been working out, mind you. She met me initially, a little heavy. She knew me about the time I first drafted “Making Gains” down the page a bit. But I had dropped some weight during our relationship and was sporting a pretty decent build. Had she been harboring this sentiment for over 2 years? I’m not a bright man, so you can imagine that I was confused; a little lost.
“Fat Ass?” I questioned. “What is that? I mean, I don’t even get where… What are you trying to… fat ass?
She could have called me insensitive, or crude, or any number of things. “Jerk” comes to mind. But FAT (space) ASS? My girlfriend was a smallish woman; petite and attractive. She was lucky to be 5 foot even. Weighed maybe 100 pounds. Still, I had to say something:
“Midget!” I hollered back.
She laughed out loud. It was the beginning of the making up, for the time being anyway. I had caught her in a senseless act and I responded appropriately, I thought, given the circumstances ;)
During the beginning of the relationship she adored me (isn’t this always the case in the beginning?) She told me how handsome she thought I was. I reciprocated the sentiment and we would spend hours staring into each others eyes. I know this is getting sappy but bear with me. I’m reaching a point, sort of.
Towards the end of the relationship things changed (don’t they always change towards the end?) We were having a little tiff about something or other and, out of God’s own, wide clear blue sky, she hollers out:
“Fat Ass!”
The argument was not a severe one. Certainly we had not reached the point of name calling. Yet she drew first blood. And boy what a stinger! I had been working out, mind you. She met me initially, a little heavy. She knew me about the time I first drafted “Making Gains” down the page a bit. But I had dropped some weight during our relationship and was sporting a pretty decent build. Had she been harboring this sentiment for over 2 years? I’m not a bright man, so you can imagine that I was confused; a little lost.
“Fat Ass?” I questioned. “What is that? I mean, I don’t even get where… What are you trying to… fat ass?
She could have called me insensitive, or crude, or any number of things. “Jerk” comes to mind. But FAT (space) ASS? My girlfriend was a smallish woman; petite and attractive. She was lucky to be 5 foot even. Weighed maybe 100 pounds. Still, I had to say something:
“Midget!” I hollered back.
She laughed out loud. It was the beginning of the making up, for the time being anyway. I had caught her in a senseless act and I responded appropriately, I thought, given the circumstances ;)
Friday, February 13, 2009
Hunker Down!
During recent Hurricane Ike in Houston one memory rises above the tumultuous fray. It's not so much the toppled trees, wind torn roofs, or weeks without lights and water that I recall most vividly. Instead, a single phrase, along with a ridiculous image, comes to mind:
"Hunker down!"
During Television and radio broadcasts of the storm, journalists kept giving us this advice. If you had power and could watch the TV, you noticed that they said the phrase with squinted, serious eyes and a firm demeanor. They seemed to think that they were the first to impart such wisdom. They were proud of themselves. But they were not the first. Every station you tuned in had someone saying:
"Hunker down!"
Sometimes they added auxiliary advice
"Stay inside and hunker down."
"Keep off the streets and hunker down."
"Remain calm and hunker down."
"Seek out your loved ones and together, remain, hunkered down."
Still no one ever thought to define, exactly, what it means to hunker down. I get mental images of squatting, crouching, low walking people. I think that only marines should be able to say this phrase, and only during extreme combat situations
“Hunker down boys, the enemy is closing in fast!”
"Hunker down!"
During Television and radio broadcasts of the storm, journalists kept giving us this advice. If you had power and could watch the TV, you noticed that they said the phrase with squinted, serious eyes and a firm demeanor. They seemed to think that they were the first to impart such wisdom. They were proud of themselves. But they were not the first. Every station you tuned in had someone saying:
"Hunker down!"
Sometimes they added auxiliary advice
"Stay inside and hunker down."
"Keep off the streets and hunker down."
"Remain calm and hunker down."
"Seek out your loved ones and together, remain, hunkered down."
Still no one ever thought to define, exactly, what it means to hunker down. I get mental images of squatting, crouching, low walking people. I think that only marines should be able to say this phrase, and only during extreme combat situations
“Hunker down boys, the enemy is closing in fast!”
Thursday, February 5, 2009
David After Dentist
I include the below video here for three inconsequential reasons and a fourth, more important, reason.
1. It's very funny.
2. I have no videos on my blog and I want them. Other blogs have videos and mine should have them too. My blog is better than other blogs, better than everyone else's blog, and it is better in every way. Videos are now a part of this betterness.
3. Having the video makes me feel good. Aside from felling better about the blog, I feel technologically competent, validated. I am not too savvy with many things. I'm familiar with my own navel, but most else I view as a mystery. So the fact that I can take this bit of code and paste it into my blog makes me very, VERY proud.
4. I am David. Not really; I'm Derek and I am 40 and normally wear a goatee. Still, I relate to little David's seemingly entire state of confusion. The first thing that called my name was when he asks
"Is this real life?"
I feel, as many of us do, that this surely can't be it, can't be all there is. I have been told though, that indeed this is it . This is not a trial run, as I had secretly hoped. Then David miscounts his fingers which I do. At least once a day I find myself counting on them, to make certain that one of them hasn't been lost.
Next we find young David rising from his seat onto his arms and screaming, protesting this erroneous reality, expressing his frustration. I have done this at home occasionally, but normally I reserve this tactic for the office. It's my way of saying "Do NOT assign me any cases. Better still, don't talk to me today, as I am seriously, unrighteously "unwell."
Now we find David in denial
"I don't feel tired" he says, then nearly closes his eyes. Similarly, I might say, "No Sir, I'm resting my head on the desk because I am studying the effects of dust on the mucous membranes. I AM NOT sleeping."
David then asks, twice, if he has stitches. I can recall every single stitch and broken bone that I have received over the years, but the short term memory goes. More importantly, the short term memory goes. After David pronounces his condition of "felling funny" he asks, pleads for an answer
"Why is this happening to me?" Sound familiar to you?
Finally he asks in readily apparent frustration
"Is this going to be forever?"
His father, in an effort towards kindness lies to the child. But I want him to know, wherever he is
"Yes, David. This will last forever, or at least 30 more years."
1. It's very funny.
2. I have no videos on my blog and I want them. Other blogs have videos and mine should have them too. My blog is better than other blogs, better than everyone else's blog, and it is better in every way. Videos are now a part of this betterness.
3. Having the video makes me feel good. Aside from felling better about the blog, I feel technologically competent, validated. I am not too savvy with many things. I'm familiar with my own navel, but most else I view as a mystery. So the fact that I can take this bit of code and paste it into my blog makes me very, VERY proud.
4. I am David. Not really; I'm Derek and I am 40 and normally wear a goatee. Still, I relate to little David's seemingly entire state of confusion. The first thing that called my name was when he asks
"Is this real life?"
I feel, as many of us do, that this surely can't be it, can't be all there is. I have been told though, that indeed this is it . This is not a trial run, as I had secretly hoped. Then David miscounts his fingers which I do. At least once a day I find myself counting on them, to make certain that one of them hasn't been lost.
Next we find young David rising from his seat onto his arms and screaming, protesting this erroneous reality, expressing his frustration. I have done this at home occasionally, but normally I reserve this tactic for the office. It's my way of saying "Do NOT assign me any cases. Better still, don't talk to me today, as I am seriously, unrighteously "unwell."
Now we find David in denial
"I don't feel tired" he says, then nearly closes his eyes. Similarly, I might say, "No Sir, I'm resting my head on the desk because I am studying the effects of dust on the mucous membranes. I AM NOT sleeping."
David then asks, twice, if he has stitches. I can recall every single stitch and broken bone that I have received over the years, but the short term memory goes. More importantly, the short term memory goes. After David pronounces his condition of "felling funny" he asks, pleads for an answer
"Why is this happening to me?" Sound familiar to you?
Finally he asks in readily apparent frustration
"Is this going to be forever?"
His father, in an effort towards kindness lies to the child. But I want him to know, wherever he is
"Yes, David. This will last forever, or at least 30 more years."
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Alligator Story
I was at the gas station recently and a man approached me, you can always tell the ones. They look a little out of place, a little hesitant and bold at the same time.
"Excuse me sir, I never do this but I just have to ask"
Ok, here comes another one. Another panhandler, hell bent on making my day suck.
"You see, I have a daughter and she called me late last night. She got pulled over, got arrested. I was driving down here from the Woodlands."
He needs gas. They always need gas. If they only knew how routine this story was.
"They impounded her car and the charges went up. She initially called me around 11:30 and needed only $165 but now they have added another $50 for holding the car another day."
He's not nearly done telling me this story. I know because he's really into the routine now. It's been well rehearsed. And so much DETAIL! These stories always contain lots of details.
"So you see, Mister, the price went up on the impound fee. I have the extra money to get her car I do, I'm not asking you for much. I just need about $8.00 to buy gas to make it back up to the Woodlands."
I'm thinking, adding in my head. Yes, about $8.00. This is also the cost of VERY cheap cigarettes and VERY cheap beer, combined. $8.00. I won't share with you how I know this, but I know.
"So Sir, God Bless you. I am not lying. I DO LIE, probably ever day I do. But I am not lying right now."
I found this confession odd. I imagine that he thought it might make him appear more sensible or genuinely human.
"So you see, I am telling God's honest truth. Can I have $8.00?"
I have been listening and nodding and saying things like "Uh hu, I see." I'm not giving him $8.00. I could give him a couple bucks I suppose. But you know what? I don;t have a lot of money either and I work hard for the little that I have. I consider my writing goals and I decide to be creative. This thing will make for a fine little blog post. He had been using a nice Texas accent, maybe natural, maybe overblown a little but a good southern drawl. I say in MY best southern drawl:
"Ooooooh Man, Lordy! You have come upon a stretch of bad luck ain't ya'? And God bless you and your daughter. My heart goes out to ya' my friend."
You have to show empathy and kindness. It helps to get you off the hook.
"But let me tell you what happened to me just the other day. I was takin' my lil' dawg, her names Misty. She's a Shitsa'Poo mix breed, I was takin' her for a walk down there at Oyster Creek in Sugar Land. We was walkin' right up close to the creek. You know them signs out there that reads 'beware of alligators?' I never pay attention to them signs. But I'll be DAMNED if an ole' gator didn't jump right up and bite Misty's hind legs off! What with the vet bills and all, I ain't got a dime to spare!"
I'm telling you now, you can't go wrong with an alligator story.
"Excuse me sir, I never do this but I just have to ask"
Ok, here comes another one. Another panhandler, hell bent on making my day suck.
"You see, I have a daughter and she called me late last night. She got pulled over, got arrested. I was driving down here from the Woodlands."
He needs gas. They always need gas. If they only knew how routine this story was.
"They impounded her car and the charges went up. She initially called me around 11:30 and needed only $165 but now they have added another $50 for holding the car another day."
He's not nearly done telling me this story. I know because he's really into the routine now. It's been well rehearsed. And so much DETAIL! These stories always contain lots of details.
"So you see, Mister, the price went up on the impound fee. I have the extra money to get her car I do, I'm not asking you for much. I just need about $8.00 to buy gas to make it back up to the Woodlands."
I'm thinking, adding in my head. Yes, about $8.00. This is also the cost of VERY cheap cigarettes and VERY cheap beer, combined. $8.00. I won't share with you how I know this, but I know.
"So Sir, God Bless you. I am not lying. I DO LIE, probably ever day I do. But I am not lying right now."
I found this confession odd. I imagine that he thought it might make him appear more sensible or genuinely human.
"So you see, I am telling God's honest truth. Can I have $8.00?"
I have been listening and nodding and saying things like "Uh hu, I see." I'm not giving him $8.00. I could give him a couple bucks I suppose. But you know what? I don;t have a lot of money either and I work hard for the little that I have. I consider my writing goals and I decide to be creative. This thing will make for a fine little blog post. He had been using a nice Texas accent, maybe natural, maybe overblown a little but a good southern drawl. I say in MY best southern drawl:
"Ooooooh Man, Lordy! You have come upon a stretch of bad luck ain't ya'? And God bless you and your daughter. My heart goes out to ya' my friend."
You have to show empathy and kindness. It helps to get you off the hook.
"But let me tell you what happened to me just the other day. I was takin' my lil' dawg, her names Misty. She's a Shitsa'Poo mix breed, I was takin' her for a walk down there at Oyster Creek in Sugar Land. We was walkin' right up close to the creek. You know them signs out there that reads 'beware of alligators?' I never pay attention to them signs. But I'll be DAMNED if an ole' gator didn't jump right up and bite Misty's hind legs off! What with the vet bills and all, I ain't got a dime to spare!"
I'm telling you now, you can't go wrong with an alligator story.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Just a Trim
I’m concerned about my yard. “It needs a haircut” I think to myself, as I give a lazy gaze from my living room window on a Saturday afternoon. I’m not delaying the actual chore, just viewing the situation in a whole new way. “It’s bushy and tousled” I continue to myself. “It looks like a freshly wakened head of hair.”
Maybe I should call a local barber. It’s not too long really, just needs a little off the top and a trim around the edges. A basic cut should do it. You know, to make it clean and presentable. It suffers from a severe cowlick though. Just in front of the flower bed there is an unruly tuft of weeds that may require further attention. It sprouts there regularly, and grows much faster than the rest of the yard.
There’s a bald spot too, off lonely in one corner of the yard. What a sad little brown patch. Upon closer inspection, I notice split ends creeping up here and there. These blades are slender, much finer than the rest of the lawn, and grow in small bunches. What’s a good shampoo for slit ends, I wonder? My girlfriend probably knows, but I won’t ask because I don’t want to see the rolling eyes again;
I’m growing more worried now as I notice long defiant strands that sprawl out unattractively, encroaching the curb and driveway. These slender knotted braids are a real eyesore; and bold little things! How bombastic!. This yard is completely rebellious. Now I know it needs a good stylist, and not just a generic cut.
I reach for the phone book to find the best salon for the job when my girlfriend hollers out “Haven’t you started the yard yet?” I give a deep sigh, then reply, “Okay dear, I’m on my way.” I’m not properly trained to cut hair, I think to myself, as I head for the garage.
Maybe I should call a local barber. It’s not too long really, just needs a little off the top and a trim around the edges. A basic cut should do it. You know, to make it clean and presentable. It suffers from a severe cowlick though. Just in front of the flower bed there is an unruly tuft of weeds that may require further attention. It sprouts there regularly, and grows much faster than the rest of the yard.
There’s a bald spot too, off lonely in one corner of the yard. What a sad little brown patch. Upon closer inspection, I notice split ends creeping up here and there. These blades are slender, much finer than the rest of the lawn, and grow in small bunches. What’s a good shampoo for slit ends, I wonder? My girlfriend probably knows, but I won’t ask because I don’t want to see the rolling eyes again;
I’m growing more worried now as I notice long defiant strands that sprawl out unattractively, encroaching the curb and driveway. These slender knotted braids are a real eyesore; and bold little things! How bombastic!. This yard is completely rebellious. Now I know it needs a good stylist, and not just a generic cut.
I reach for the phone book to find the best salon for the job when my girlfriend hollers out “Haven’t you started the yard yet?” I give a deep sigh, then reply, “Okay dear, I’m on my way.” I’m not properly trained to cut hair, I think to myself, as I head for the garage.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Fat Ass?
I recently re-connected with an old friend. We had stopped talking initially, as I recall, because I had said something foolish, or cruel, perhaps both. We decided to let bygones be bygones and to remain friends. This gets me thinking though, about an argument that I had some years ago with an ex-girlfriend. Gets me thinking about the things we say when we’re mad, and why we say them.
During the beginning of the relationship she adored me (isn’t this always the case in the beginning?) She told me how handsome she thought I was. I reciprocated the sentiment and we would spend hours staring into each others eyes. I know this is getting sappy but bear with me. I’m reaching a point, sort of.
Towards the end of the relationship things changed (don’t they always change towards the end?) We were having a little tiff about something or other and, out of God’s own, wide clear blue sky, she hollers out:
“Fat Ass!”
The argument was not a severe one. Certainly we had not reached the point of name calling. Yet she drew first blood. And boy what a stinger! I had been working out, mind you. She met me initially, a little heavy. She knew me about the time I first drafted “Making Gains” down the page a bit. But I had dropped some weight during our relationship and was sporting a pretty decent build. Had she been harboring this sentiment for over 2 years? I’m not a bright man, so you can imagine that I was confused; a little lost.
“Fat Ass?” I questioned. “What is that? I mean, I don’t even get where… What are you trying to… fat ass?
She could have called me insensitive, or crude, or any number of things. “Jerk” comes to mind. But FAT (space) ASS? My girlfriend was a smallish woman; petite and attractive. She was lucky to be 5 foot even. Weighed maybe 100 pounds. Still, I had to say something:
“Midget!” I hollered back.
She laughed out loud. It was the beginning of the making up, for the time being anyway. I had caught her in a senseless act and I responded appropriately, I thought, given the circumstances ;)
{There is a better ending to this little piece. I just can't find it yet!}
During the beginning of the relationship she adored me (isn’t this always the case in the beginning?) She told me how handsome she thought I was. I reciprocated the sentiment and we would spend hours staring into each others eyes. I know this is getting sappy but bear with me. I’m reaching a point, sort of.
Towards the end of the relationship things changed (don’t they always change towards the end?) We were having a little tiff about something or other and, out of God’s own, wide clear blue sky, she hollers out:
“Fat Ass!”
The argument was not a severe one. Certainly we had not reached the point of name calling. Yet she drew first blood. And boy what a stinger! I had been working out, mind you. She met me initially, a little heavy. She knew me about the time I first drafted “Making Gains” down the page a bit. But I had dropped some weight during our relationship and was sporting a pretty decent build. Had she been harboring this sentiment for over 2 years? I’m not a bright man, so you can imagine that I was confused; a little lost.
“Fat Ass?” I questioned. “What is that? I mean, I don’t even get where… What are you trying to… fat ass?
She could have called me insensitive, or crude, or any number of things. “Jerk” comes to mind. But FAT (space) ASS? My girlfriend was a smallish woman; petite and attractive. She was lucky to be 5 foot even. Weighed maybe 100 pounds. Still, I had to say something:
“Midget!” I hollered back.
She laughed out loud. It was the beginning of the making up, for the time being anyway. I had caught her in a senseless act and I responded appropriately, I thought, given the circumstances ;)
{There is a better ending to this little piece. I just can't find it yet!}
Friday, January 23, 2009
How Soon We Forget
They were doing some work on my computer today at the office. I had to get up from my seat to make room for the “IT Guy,” a nice guy named Jonathon. As I eyed the room, I saw several available chairs in which to sit. I saw a spot recently vacated by Amanda. Amanda had been at the company for about 6 months, and left on short notice. I thought I’d go sit at her spot and absorb some of her energy, maybe remember her for a while. I had helped train her when she started. She had been a nice girl, though a little hard to get to know.
When I sat down at her desk, among the disconnected computer wires and the dust, I saw a notepad and a pen. I began to read her notes. She’s like me, can’t break the habit of pen and paper, little tangible reminders. The notes on the pages of the pad, as I flipped them back, went on for months. One of the little lists had the following:
*Ask Ryota about the Adwords macro
*Do my budget tracker
*Do research for creative call with client
*Bring Thanksgiving food for the party
Certain things were highlighted, checked off, scratched through; Something that I would, that most of us, might do. Upon reading the list and thinking of the human, yet mundane, reality of it all, especially the last note, a tear came to my eye. No, Thanksgiving food doesn’t usually make me cry, but what did I really know about this girl? What did any of us? We had worked with her daily for many months, interacting. Now she’s off to Dallas, or wherever she said…
Now Jonathon, the “IT Guy,” he’s a real nice guy, he’s asking me a question:
“Do I know, what is it you say, the path I had taken to retrieve the file?” That was my reply, in the form of a question.
“No, John, I just know that my shit’s gone. All the stuff, my desktop, it’s missing.” That was my answer. I added it for emphasis, for clarification.
The notes on Amandas checklist had hit home with me. Item #1, we all do that. Ryota is a genius in his own right and we all ask him for things. Item #2, as a marketing specialist, I do this regularly. Same with #3. Now #4, all Americans who have ever attended a work related Holiday function, have penciled such notes to themselves.
I thought of what it must have been like for Amanda when she started working with us. Had she learned all she needed about the job? Had we made her feel comfortable, made her feel “at home?” She’s gone now, so who knows. I thought of all the others who had recently left our little, rapidly growing company. I have reminders of each one.
“Charles, I have your expensive and fancy desk clock, that to this day doesn’t work.”
“Marie, I have the Cookie jar, keeping it safe. No cookies in it STILL!”
“Bianca, I have a little stuffed, quite dusty, dog.”
“Karen, I have a couple of your clients, just launched the campaigns; Doing Great!”
“Christina, I have the big gold letters the client sent you. I kept the ‘O’ and the ‘K’, hoping everything is OK with you.”
There are others who have left us, job-wise anyway, and I have little things I inherited from them too, or otherwise pilfered from their desks. Hee-hee. But to Amanda, I say
“I have your notepad. I started scrawling out this little essay, while sitting at your desk. I’m transcribing from it now. I’ll keep it safe and, believe me, well used.”
Take care, all of you. Stay in touch. Facebook, Twitter, whatever. See you on the Net.
When I sat down at her desk, among the disconnected computer wires and the dust, I saw a notepad and a pen. I began to read her notes. She’s like me, can’t break the habit of pen and paper, little tangible reminders. The notes on the pages of the pad, as I flipped them back, went on for months. One of the little lists had the following:
*Ask Ryota about the Adwords macro
*Do my budget tracker
*Do research for creative call with client
*Bring Thanksgiving food for the party
Certain things were highlighted, checked off, scratched through; Something that I would, that most of us, might do. Upon reading the list and thinking of the human, yet mundane, reality of it all, especially the last note, a tear came to my eye. No, Thanksgiving food doesn’t usually make me cry, but what did I really know about this girl? What did any of us? We had worked with her daily for many months, interacting. Now she’s off to Dallas, or wherever she said…
Now Jonathon, the “IT Guy,” he’s a real nice guy, he’s asking me a question:
“Do I know, what is it you say, the path I had taken to retrieve the file?” That was my reply, in the form of a question.
“No, John, I just know that my shit’s gone. All the stuff, my desktop, it’s missing.” That was my answer. I added it for emphasis, for clarification.
The notes on Amandas checklist had hit home with me. Item #1, we all do that. Ryota is a genius in his own right and we all ask him for things. Item #2, as a marketing specialist, I do this regularly. Same with #3. Now #4, all Americans who have ever attended a work related Holiday function, have penciled such notes to themselves.
I thought of what it must have been like for Amanda when she started working with us. Had she learned all she needed about the job? Had we made her feel comfortable, made her feel “at home?” She’s gone now, so who knows. I thought of all the others who had recently left our little, rapidly growing company. I have reminders of each one.
“Charles, I have your expensive and fancy desk clock, that to this day doesn’t work.”
“Marie, I have the Cookie jar, keeping it safe. No cookies in it STILL!”
“Bianca, I have a little stuffed, quite dusty, dog.”
“Karen, I have a couple of your clients, just launched the campaigns; Doing Great!”
“Christina, I have the big gold letters the client sent you. I kept the ‘O’ and the ‘K’, hoping everything is OK with you.”
There are others who have left us, job-wise anyway, and I have little things I inherited from them too, or otherwise pilfered from their desks. Hee-hee. But to Amanda, I say
“I have your notepad. I started scrawling out this little essay, while sitting at your desk. I’m transcribing from it now. I’ll keep it safe and, believe me, well used.”
Take care, all of you. Stay in touch. Facebook, Twitter, whatever. See you on the Net.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Bad Haircuts
Have you ever had a bad haircut? Me too. Apparently they're fairly common. The problem is that you have no control over it. You tend to believe in this person and their abilities. You want to believe in them. You kind of have to believe in them. So when it happens, it's like being stabbed in the back. There's not quite the betrayal aspect, but certainly you never see it coming. You're just sitting there, believing in them, enjoying the haircut... Do you know that I heard lonely people go to the stylist for that very reason? A little pampering, a little of the human touch? That's odd because there are other things you can pay for that, well... That's another post entirely.
So you're sitting there, enjoying the haircut. You don't know what she's doing back there. Maybe she's looking at the picture you gave her to work from. She's looking at the picture and clipping away. You feel good because it sounds productive. There seems to be a lot of snipping and clipping and combing. Then you see the finished product and it's clear that she wasn't looking at the same picture you gave her initially. You think:
"What is this that you've done to me? What did I ever do to you? This is not just a bad haircut, this is cruelty, making me look like this!"
You feel violated in some way, and very vulnerable. The first thing you do is go straight home to wash the hair to see what you can do with it. The hair cutting professional wasn't up for the task at hand, but you can certainly salvage things. So you wash it and get out combs and gel and blow dryers and implements of all sorts. If nothing works, then there is at least the comfort that it will grow back, some day.
It's worse for women too. For a guy, no matter how bad they mess it up, it can be cut shorter. The bald look is even in for guys now. Girls don't have this option, not here in the States anyway. When a girl gets a messed up Do, it's a 6 month curse, minimum, because the hair has to grow back, and then be re-styled.
Another problem is what to say to the stylist. What do you say to them, after the smoke has cleared?
"Oh wow, thanks so much. This is just the look I was going for; a bald spot!"
You can always ask them to please clip a little shorter here, or blend a little more there. Meanwhile, it keeps getting shorter and shorter. It's a case of diminishing returns.
Usually you don't notice the problem till' it's over and done. You stifle a scream, force a smile and tell them it looks great. You probably tip them, because that's what you always do, then you leave, go to a quite place, and cry. Face it, you're screwed.
So you're sitting there, enjoying the haircut. You don't know what she's doing back there. Maybe she's looking at the picture you gave her to work from. She's looking at the picture and clipping away. You feel good because it sounds productive. There seems to be a lot of snipping and clipping and combing. Then you see the finished product and it's clear that she wasn't looking at the same picture you gave her initially. You think:
"What is this that you've done to me? What did I ever do to you? This is not just a bad haircut, this is cruelty, making me look like this!"
You feel violated in some way, and very vulnerable. The first thing you do is go straight home to wash the hair to see what you can do with it. The hair cutting professional wasn't up for the task at hand, but you can certainly salvage things. So you wash it and get out combs and gel and blow dryers and implements of all sorts. If nothing works, then there is at least the comfort that it will grow back, some day.
It's worse for women too. For a guy, no matter how bad they mess it up, it can be cut shorter. The bald look is even in for guys now. Girls don't have this option, not here in the States anyway. When a girl gets a messed up Do, it's a 6 month curse, minimum, because the hair has to grow back, and then be re-styled.
Another problem is what to say to the stylist. What do you say to them, after the smoke has cleared?
"Oh wow, thanks so much. This is just the look I was going for; a bald spot!"
You can always ask them to please clip a little shorter here, or blend a little more there. Meanwhile, it keeps getting shorter and shorter. It's a case of diminishing returns.
Usually you don't notice the problem till' it's over and done. You stifle a scream, force a smile and tell them it looks great. You probably tip them, because that's what you always do, then you leave, go to a quite place, and cry. Face it, you're screwed.
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