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| Sometimes it ain't fair |
| 04.29.05 (2:13 am) [edit] |
We have these things called shoppers that come into our store and rate us on 12 points of service. The ratings are yes or no questions and many of them are not applicable to my department. Recently, one of our senior servers in the bar was cited with two yes responses and one N/A. She was given no responses on the rest of the evaluation.
This happens twice a month and I'm just glad it wasn't me, who still has three days left until my probationary period is over, who was given the dreary evaluation.
What has me buggin' about this evaluation system is that we can't possibly satisfy a third of the questions with a yes answer. I deal with guests as they are entering our hotel and don't know their names until after they have paid me. So, "did the employee use your name at least three times in your exchange" can only, honestly, be answered with N/A. "We're you invited to dine?" Well, "no" because the restaurant had already closed. "Did the server ask if you were a guest in the hotel?" We assume so, as we stumbled to serve beverages from the right over their bulky luggage, but, otherwise treat everyone as guests of the hotel. (they are!)
What ughs me more is that when I asked my manager for a list of the twelve questions, he was not forthcoming with this list. Does he want us to fail? If we know our expectations, we can fulfill them, n'est-ce pas? This particular manager is a bit of a thimble-head, anyway, so I shouldn't be surprised by his vague answer. I also know that I was shopped earlier this week and did very well, but still scored a "no" on using the guest's name three times. (I don't know it until he pays me with credit or room charge....!!!!!)
I didn't have any coffee today (which has the effect of making me a grump) and it doesn't help that this was the first bit of information given to me upon getting to work. And, this is my Monday, so to speak, and I just wanted good things to be told to me. Now, I have at least three months of hyper-vigilance with regard to every word I say or don't say before we don't have the eyes of big corporate hotel breathing down our polyester.
Thankfully, my co-workers and I have a scheme that we think will help us score better. We will overlap our service points at every possible occurence. Say, for example, I don't see Mr. Velmont get up and leave, but Latilda does, she can say, "Thank you, and visit us again soon!" We will write down the table numbers and write the names of the guests at those tables down as we know them. We can then loudly use those names in the presence of the shoppers. We will update the list as the tables turn. However, for security reasons, we can't say the name and room number of the guest at the same time, so if the guest has announced their room number, we need to be very subtle about use of their last name. Whatever, I guess...I know I'm in and don't have a lot to worry about, but it's important for me to be in the part of the hotel that consistantly scores highly on the evaluations.
Certain words are forbidden, also. "Hi" is not an appropriate greeting. We just learned today that we, in spite of wearing nametags, are supposed to walk to our table and announce our names, suggest food from room service if the main dining area is closed, and otherwise stalk our tables asking if they might want another drink until the guests leave. (that feels too intrusive to me) But with my regular guests, whose names and shoe size I'm familiar, saying, "Hi, Mrs. Whoknot, how was your trip from Napa?" is a lot more natural feeling than saying, "How wonderful to see you again, Mrs. Whoknot, will you be having dinner with us this evenng?" knowing full well that she's off to see the opera.
I'm just venting.....
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| Carburetor, pt. 1 |
| 04.27.05 (12:58 am) [edit] |
n. A device for mixing vaporized fuel with air to produce an explosive mixture, as for an internal combustion engine.
Sounds simple enough. In automobiles, these devices have largely been replaced by a fuel injection system. However, hundreds of months ago when I was a plaid bell-bottomed trousered child standing outside the garage while my mother tried to coax her misty green 1968 Nova's carburetor to cause the series of explosions that would allow us to go buy groceries, the carburetor was our enemy as much as it was our friend.
My mom's rule was that we couldn't sit in the car in the garage as she tried to start it because the fumes were bad for us to breathe and someone had to close the garage door once the backfiring beast was rumbling and ready to roll. Several times, weekly, I listened to the sounds of her urging her car to life.
I have for years tried to write this memory in a way that allows the reader to experience what I think is one of the funniest series of noises, smells, skill, and patience a person set on automobile travel might experience. By definition, the carburetor was a tool to the engine's success. Similarly, yet significantly different, a mordent is a trill begun on the note played and trilled along with a note just below it. An example of a mordent is the beginning of J.S. Bach's, "Toccata and Fugue in D Minor". The art of creating a mordent and, subsequently, suspenseful music, is lost by reading its definition. The art of starting an old, cantankerous, carbureted engine is lost by the simplicity of the carburetor's definition.
Standing outside the garage, I could hear the key go into the ignition, a metallic slick/click, hear my mother pump the gas pedal twice (clunk clunk) and then began the battle to get the car to start before the battery died from cranking the engine and/or the engine was flooded with too much fuel. I'm a bit of a weirdo, but I can tell what make a car is by the way the engine sounds as it cranks. Chevys have a starter sound distinct to them. Our Fords all had the same sound when we cranked them up. That Nova required patience on cold days and it was was a dance of carefully timed gas pedal pumping in perfect synch with the ever changing sounds happening under the hood. I know this well because my first car was a '76 Gran Torino and it was as big of a boat as it was a bitch to get started with its un-cooperative carburetor.
A successful start sounded something like, "Chiggida-baggada, chiggida-baggada, chiggida-baggada, (clunk clunk) chiggida-baggada, chiggida bag, bag, bag, (clunk clunk) chiggida bag, bag bag (clunk clunk) BAG POW ROOOAAAR!!!!" and ending this series of sounds a cloud of black sooty smoke would erupt from the tailpipe and sometimes, the car actually stayed running for a few seconds. Usually, it stalled immediately and the "Chiggida-baggada" began again. I was able to tell by the sound whether or not the car was running and ready for adventure. The "chiggida-baggada" part of this paragraph could more accurately be written as about 10 minutes worth of onomatopoeia but that might tire you, my dear readers. Sometimes the car wouldn't start and mom would grab her purse get out of the car and we'd go back in the house.
The car was once used by one of my aunts and she painted on the trunk of the car, "Sex, Drugs, Love, Fun, We're the class of '71" when she graduated high school. Although she'd used poster paint, the sun permanently stained this mantra onto the trunk and, years later, you could still read it on the trunk of the car. In 1981, "We're the class of '71" was still visible when the old Nova was traded in for a Ford Escort.
The car had a squeak in the odometer cable that souded like a bird chirping. The faster we drove, the faster that bird chirped. The transmission of the car, even as it was an automatic, had a "slippy clutch" which summed up to sometimes, when the car was in drive and the gas pedal was depressed, the engine roared, but the car didn't move. Sometimes the "slippy clutch" would catch mid roar and the car would lurch forward, tires squealing and passengers pinned to their seats. Because of this, my mother avoided making left turns because she'd have to wait for traffic to clear, and then gamble on whether or not the car would move when she hit the gas. She devised routes to most of our destinations that required only right turns made at lights, sometimes making four right turns to get us to our destination.
Nova '68 was originally my maternal step-grandmother's car, she passed it on to my Aunt Debbie and from there it became my family's second car after Debbie bought her own, '74 Nova. Look for it to be described in a post called, "The Brown Bomb". I don't mean to suggest that Novas were bad cars, it was simply a time of great recession in the Detroit area and we kept what we had until we couldn't make do with it anymore
There were quirks in Nova '68 beyond what I have described already. When the car was shifted into drive, it looked like the red needle indicating gear choice was set in neutral. My paternal grandmother had to drive this car on the day we moved from Detroit to Redford, as she was babysitting my brother and I, and stuck the red needle at what should have been "drive" but was really, "low2" the car wouldn't go above 20 miles an hour without backfiring like mad and she had to tell my parents, who had just spent every bit of money they had to buy us a house outside of Detroit, that there was something wrong with the car. My mother, upon hearing the description of what had happened with the car was calm. "Oh no. You just had it in the wrong gear. I'm sure it's fine...."
And it was, just a few more years of "chiggida-baggada" Then, we had a blue Escort, (whack whack whack..rooom) a white Gran Torino, (murpheddawhumpeda) our first brand new car the later being carbureted, the former fuel injected. However, the Escort was a manual transmission and without regard to her skill at coaxing the Nova to life, the manual transmission was a beast my mother couldn't master. In her defense, I have never had more difficulty driving a standard trans than the Ford Escort.
I'm a Motor City boy and will always love the Motown sound, whether it be the sound of Supremely tricky cars starting, or, "The Supremes".
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| For the Arts |
| 04.25.05 (1:30 am) [edit] |
Today, while working, I noticed that I'd received a telephone call from an ex-boyfriend cellist ya-hoo. Since there is nearly nothing someone can do to me for which I cannot find motivation to at least attempt forgiveness breaking my heart included, I listened to his message. So, even as I remain acquainted with this man, I'm always a bit surprised to see that he's called. Sometimes, I still worry that something bad might have happened to him. (He has only a mother and a father left alive and they both live in different areas of the former Soviet Union and I know he misses his mother incredibly.) Today's call was just plain funny.
It seems that the shuttle bus that was to take Al to the airport arrived a bit early and Al was rushed in leaving his apartment. We're talking like this was at 4 am and cello, bag and person had to be out the door half an hour earlier than scheduled. I don't know about y'all, but at that hour, when I'm waking to it instead of falling asleep to it, every minute is an hour. Since the woman he lives with is also out of town, he decided to have have an anxiety attack on the airplane regarding whether or not he'd closed the door when he left. He flies first class and took full advantage of the beverage service on that airplane and left me a message that was nearly coherent. I listened to the message and decided to break company policy and used my cell phone while working to call him back. The conversation was something like, "Oh shit, bitch, I don't know if I did what I might not have done or if I did something or not what I think I did." (the english, it's funny when the Russian is drunk) I said, "what are you talking about?"
He garbled out how he thinks he might have left his door open and would I do him a favor and go to his apartment (really, it's a house) and see if he closed the door. I told him I would and planned on riding the bus to his place and checking it out. Really, I was honored that he felt he could ask me a favor as he is not the type to ask anyone for any help ever. As I was working, I thought about how meticulous he is about everything and seriously contemplated not going to check on the door, knowing there was no way he didn't triple check it before leaving. I also know that because he is travelling for an audition, he's extra nervous, and I know he expresses this nervousness with thoughts such as, "did I leave the iron on?" You know we all do it.
I believe strongly in honesty and decided to catch the bus to go way out of my way to look at his locked house. It was locked, but the relief I heard in his voice when I called to tell him I was standing in front of his locked house was a payment you don't get for an average days work. He happened to be staying in the same chain of hotels for which I'm employed and he noted, "this is a nice room, for Priceline price, anyway" (that's a big compliment from the grumpy Russian.)
He's auditioning in St. Louis and I hope he does well knowing that he's well secured here and free to concentrate on his playing. He's made it to the semi-finals with this particular orchestra and maybe, just maybe, he'll come away with a job. I suspect he's one of the world's best cellists and can win this seat. I know he's one crazy neurotic weirdo.
I was telling this story to a flutist today and she and I had a long talk about how people who have the ability to be artists can't support the arts. They are the artists, themselves, and owe thousands of dollars in education that will probably get them a job at a Tony Roma's restaurant. Unfortunately, too many people think of "the arts' and think of someone suspending Jesus in urine in a Mason jar. I don't quite know where to go with this, but....
If you love going to the symphony, do it! If you love opera, Go! Donate locally so that your progeny might one day realize they, too, love Mahler's 9th!
I'm particularly fond of St. Saens 3rd. I love the organ! If you are devout and your church houses and organ, support it. These intruments are dying and need our attention. They're incredibly expensive to maintain but allow one person to make the music of 10 or more people playing simultaneously.
My punk rock brother loves Beethoven's 9th. My mother loves any opera so long as we are on the ground floor. (her purse flies in the higher rows...LOL)
What if no one ever played Vivaldi's, "The Four Seasons" ever again? 300 plus years ago, this man was able to write music for two violins, a harpsicord, a viola and a cello to create the feeling of an upcoming storm, the quickening of the wind, the beginning of the rain, the downpour and all the thunder and lightening needed to make you believe you might just have become drenched. Or to let you believe you're in a horsedrawn sleigh clip-clopping through the snow
Just make sure you've closed your windows before the storm comes, and for yodle-ay-he-hoo's sake, make sure you locked the door.
Lexei, I hope you win your much deserved seat!
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| Getting Grumpy |
| 04.22.05 (12:52 pm) [edit] |
33 days ago my phone quit working and I went my butt down to Cingular to have it replaced. I carry product insurance because stuff happens and at worst, you can get a free new phone every year or two.
Yeah, right.
So as an AT&T customer for at least 8 years, there are many reasons why I don't want to give up my Cingular service. I'm grandfathered in to some free minutes, etc.
Here are the reasons why I'm ready to go "Postal" at Cingular.
1. When Cingular took over for AT&T and I had problem with my phone, I could only get tech support if my phone was being supported by an AT&T tower. This meant I had to walk around the city staring at my phone until it displayed, "AT&T" instead of "Cingular" on the screen.
2. When Cingular finished the merger, they continued to bill me for my insurance coverage even though it is through a company with whom they have no affiliation, or they otherwise lost track of my coverage. No one's able to give me an answer about that yet. I paid 5 bucks a month to an insurance company that services.....who?
3. 31 days ago, I had to pay to offically change from AT&T to Cingular as my provider.
4. On the 31st day of use, the microphone on my phone stopped working. So go ahead and call me, but you won't hear anything I say.
5. For the 98th time, my "phone company" asked me to provide them with a phone number other than mine. I have only one phone! With the aid of a nearby billboard, I gave them the number of a herpes helpline.
6. Sitting on hold for 15 minutes, (using the phone in the store where I purchased my phone) I was 'helped' by a rude operator who told me he'd gladly send out my new phone once we determined my phone wasn't working. He called me and was unable to hear me. Who knew?
7. I can wait for 7-10 days for ground track, or he'd send it Fed-Ex next day for a charge of $7. I chose next day, I figure, "you already got three toes in, you might as shove your whole foot up there."
8. It has been two days and my next day service has not yet delivered a phone.
9. It's UPS, not Fed-Ex that I'm waiting on and frankly, I need to leave the house to get some errands done.
10. I use my phone on the weekends to talk to my friends and family back east, those free minutes are valuable to me!
Who needs a fuckin' phone anyway. At least I can still text message. So I'm going to go to the laundromat, my phone will ring, the display will show "front door", I'll frantically run down the hill to my apartment because the UPS guy won't be able to hear me say, "I'm right around the corner", he'll leave me a note telling my parcel has been sent to the UPS main office, a thirty minute bus ride away.
Fuck em all, from AT&T-Cingular-UPS
(wonder what kind of google searches will turn up this post?)
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| Cheese |
| 04.22.05 (1:15 am) [edit] |
There was a group who had one of our hotel lobby rooms reserved this evening. They ordered expensive cheeses and fruit plates and left LOTS of leftovers. My co-worker, Mary-Elizabeth decided this was a good time to go get us a plate of chevre rolled in a vast array herbs, spices, nuts, etc. Some incredible cheddar, some amazingly stinky blue cheese, brie, you name it. We were up to our snouts in cheese. She also decided it was a good time to open all of the new wines that recenty hit our menu, including some top notch port.
I am not much of a wine drinker but had so much fun sipping little sips and snacking on cheese balls! I avoid wheat so there was no cracker/buscuit spreading to be done for me, but I found that a spoon worked nicely for most of the cheeses as they'd been at room temp for long enough to just melt in the mouth.
I gotta say, the new Pinot Noir with the black pepper and sesame seed encrusted chevre balls was about as close to heaven as I may ever come.
The sweetness of one of our new port wines contrasted with the ashy/metallic bleu we sampled was a perfect match. Too bad this group didn't order crabcakes. We have a new Fume Blanc which would have paired nicely.
None of this is to imply that I was hitting the sauce hard while working, just that we were doing our homework at school. Fun!
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| China Wave |
| 04.20.05 (2:47 am) [edit] |
I talk a lot and to nearly anyone who will listen. I guess with that out there, the blog doesn't seem like such a strange place for me to throw my thoughts, especially considering I can type almost as fast as I can talk
Yesterday while walking home after dinner with a friend I chatted up a man on the corner. He was in town for the evening from Seattle and is a flight attendant. I seem to be collecting flight attendants these days. Short story, we made plans to meet today on the wharf to get some touristy stuff for him to take home to friends. He only flies part time for the airline now and every trip is more of an adventure than work.
So we met by the "silver guy" near Pier 39 and did some shopping. Mostly, he bored me to tears. He did tell me about a time when he was in the attendant's waiting area waiting for his plane to land so he could board and do his preflight bull-pooh. He heard on the radio that the flight was cleared to land, and looked out onto the runway and saw the plane be struck to the ground by the dreaded, deadly wind shear. Everyone on board was killed and he was reassigned to sift through the debris. He flew out of that airport the next day and performed all duties expected of him. I'll give him credit for some major courage. However....
I wanted to take a bay cruise and he wouldn't get on any boat. Wah!!! We hung out and found him some sourdough to take home to Aunt Martha, or whoever, and then he left to go take a nap and I ran to catch the next fishing boat that was making a bay cruise. It's super cheap to take the small boats and way less touristy. The guys who sell the bay cruises are like buskers in their own element. They shout, "Kind sir, won't you take the lovely lady out for an hour of beautiful bay cruising", or "See the sea lions, the Golden Gate, Alcatraz and an unheard of sea monster!" For $10 you can get a cruise without all the usual tourists and constant camera flashing. I got on board.
Twenty minutes into our ride, we passed near a giant Chinese freighter loaded to the hilt, and then some, with rail cars ready to unload in Oakland. The freighters have restrictrions regarding their speed and the wake they produce. The boat I was on was about 25 feet long and the wake the freighter threw was four waves about 15 feet high. It was traveling way too fast and throwing huge wake.
Our pilot, who was otherwise a smart-ass tour guide, let a little concern be heard in his voice when he said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, and the two of you from Oakland, I need everyone to sit down anywhere possible and hold on with both hands, this is going to be a bit like a ride at Disneyland for a minute or two." He wasn't kidding!
He skillfully cut the power to the engines as he pointed the boat directly into the oncoming waves and we rode up the first one without incident. However, the second wave was ready to hit us before the aft portion of the boat was cleared from the first and the second washed right up and over the deck. I was drenched and thrilled! (I'd had the foresight to put my camera away before this...kinda saw it coming) As we crested that second wave, the third approached and smacked the middle of our boat about ten feet behind the bow and the jolt was enough to land me flat against the rail. (I'd already gone down on one knee and, so, was balanced well) I thought of being in the Bering Sea and crab fishing a la the Discovery Channel and thought how wonderful it was to get a taste of what those men deal with for days on end.
Thankfully, the fourth wave was weak and we rode up and over it without incident. Once we reached the Golden Gate and turned around, all of the waves were behind us and we had a smooth sail to Alcatraz. As we coasted around the island, the captain offered $5 sunset cruises to anyone who was on board as retribution for enduring the soaking from the freighter.
I declined and chose to get some ceviche at a local restaurant. I walked to the Hyde St. cable car and watched the sunset from the top of Russian hill.
It was a fun day.
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| Ms. Whiz Liz |
| 04.17.05 (11:22 pm) [edit] |
I haven't been busy. I haven't been overloaded with work. I haven't been uninspired to write something here.
I have been sad. I have been homesick. I have been looking for content that is up to Verlaine standards. I'm not sure I have it, but I'm stabbing out of thin air and we'll see what I come up with.
I've recently met a man who is from the Urkraine but has lived in the US for over 20 years. He flies with a major airline and frequently comes to SF and we met at one of my favortie watering holes. After a bit of coaxing, I spent and evening with him. I had a fantastic time getting him to tell his tales of being a flight attendant for over 15 years and then, simply, listening. He believes that without the steadiness of the flight service staff, people would soon stop flying because the entire trip would feel too much like being in a beginning, followed by chaos, and ending with touchdown on earth. He flies to Iraq monthly, at least. (very different story I cannot begine to intimate towards) I agree, he serves to keep the peace aboard the aircraft by offering it from himself. This supply of peace is not infinite. Serving requires patience and a bit of service back from our guests. "Thank you" can suffice for many years.
I watched, "Maid in Manhattan" this week and found it to be so charming. The similarities between the hotel featured in that movie and the one in which I work are definite. However, I think the dramatisation of the characters being ashamed of what they do and for whom was far too exagerated. One man in the movie spoke something to the effect of, 'We are here to serve them, we are not their servants'. This statement, however, rung a bell. This statement made me cry.
I serve because I like to serve, I am not forced to do so. This is a skill I have naturally, was noticed and honed by my mother, and I have developed into a career. Sadly, the people to whom I would most like to be serving are far away from me. I learned to serve because my mother loves to serve.
Whiz Liz cooked our meals daily and added a bit of extra flair for Sundays and went full out on holidays and birthdays. During a tornado warning, she once moved all of dinner to the basement and we had fondue by candlelight on a card table. What resourcefullness! Helping her in the kitchen was a careful dance of dodging boiling water, flying potato mashers and stabbing meat thermometers. She delegated chores with grace saying, "Use the heart shaped bowl for the mashed potatoes and don't forget to put the big serving spoon in, and set out a trivot, the meat is ready for the table." We at our meals family style most nights of the week. Minor details in a big painting too large to set a brush to, it was with her that I learned what needs to be on the table should go on the table with the dish. (if not before) I also learned about timing from her. A roast begins many hours before the vegetables need to be sauteed. Special touches are noticed and everyone likes to be pampered by having food prepared for them in a comfortable environment are two key reasons why I believe I serve so well. 25% of the experience is the aroma of expectation, 25% is the setting of the table, 25% is the announcement that dinner is almost ready, please be seated, 25% presentation. The next 100% is in the eyes, nose, mouth and stomach of the guest.
I'm saddened that I can't quite figure out a way to get to Michigan to put together a big meal for my family for Mother's Day. It was two years ago that I decided that it was my turn to start preparing the big family holidy feasts. Strangely, I think I would have done this sooner, but I was either always in some odd phase of dining that was either wacko vegetarian, or not into a certain kind of potato that prevented me from taking this task. I'm proud to have cooked Christmas dinner for my family the last time I was with them, even if I was a couple of weeks late.
I realize now that it was my mother who taught me to serve with grace and I am afforded a wonderful living now because of it. It was she who let me off the hook when I scorched the Brussels sprouts, a dish she would only eat out of politeness, by saying they were delicious. It was she who taught me that a guest can be dissastified with my work for them and, if they verbalize it, might allow me to correct the mistake.
Just as I know my cousin Erin would love Key Lime Pie for dessert more than anything on earth, she has to make it, because she is the keeper of that key, (intended) I know my father would love a lean pork tenderloin with exotic herbs slow-roasting in the oven. (even if it goes in half frozen! LOL!) And that all the family loves the introduction of spinach salad with fruit, gorgonzola, candied walnuts with raspberry vinaigrette, but we can't forget "Sally's Cream Corn" (if ya want the recipe I'll give it to ya, you'll die of cholesteral and deliciousness) I learned to make my mother's Mac and Cheese, with it's rich bechamel base, and her recipe for meatloaf because my brother would have no birthday without either. Double chocolate layer cake, with Mom's homemade, fudgy buttercream frosting holding it all together will have him knowing he's just aged another year, but steeped in happiness and love. Christmas isn't right without cheesy sausage quiche for brunch.
Connie wants little teeny tiny cookies with lots of flour in them! And a good old fashioned pot roast. (I have learned a new sauce for you and have figured out how to make it wheat free! It's so good!!! It has star anise in it, and that's all I'm sayin' 'bout that. (I stole it from a local restaurant)
We all love green bean casserole, only I prefer to make my own mushroom gravy and fry the onions fresh. Cheesy potatoes are never better than with mom's bechamel as a base and all the flavors added in as it bakes
Me, I want good old fashioned Detroit broasted chicken with sweet cole slaw. 'Cause I can do the rest for myself. Except for having my family here with me to enjoy it.
And like this, I know that Jim prefers his IPA, another Jim prefers Metaxa and soda. Juanita only drinks Champagne, or at worst, French Sparkling wine. Susan loves IPA and will have Snapper if she must, (these are beers) so long as she can get her jerk and peanut sauce together with the chicken fingers. Mr. Wark likes his martini with a squeeze of one half lemon, a bit of olive juice and a lime twist. Jane likes crisp white wines, like Sauvignon Blanc, and shrimp cocktail for dinner, but prefers a Cabernet Grappa as an aperitif. Rusty likes the finest, Louis XIII, warm. Some like wine only while playing chess, and then prefer beer. It's a simply matter of paying attention.
I learned, from my mother, that people express love and affection to one another by presenting them with the food and drink they enjoy. Inadvertantly, I learned that this can make me a fine living. I work with many men and women who have expensive degrees in "hospitality" but make significantly less money per year than I do and enjoy their office job far less. Perhaps I should send them to the "Ms. Whiz Liz" school of making people happy.
I haven't been busy, I've just been busy making things for people who pay me to do so. I look forward to the next time I can make a wonderful dinner for my family and be paid with their love and warmth.
Any requests? It's picnic season soon and I might be able to come back to MI to cook for a whole lot of you. My mother and father's yard blooms so beautifully in June, we could picnic right there.
To the Ms. Whiz Liz school of hospitality!
Thanks Mom!
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| Struttin' like a Spider |
| 04.15.05 (12:49 am) [edit] |
One of the things I'm mindful of because I live in a big city and walk alone at night is to vary my routes to and from my usual destinations. Just by simply noting that virtually none of the beggars say a word to me anymore lets me know that the people in my neighborhood, (oh god,I did not just get that stuck in my head, did I?) have seen me enough to know I'm local. Walking to work in the early evening, I always walk my favorite way and just get there. Walking home, I pick a different series of streets.
I work on one side of Nob Hill and live on the other. Coming home tonight, I chose to walk up Pine St., which is one of the steeper streets crossing the hill. It's fancier than some of my other routes, more expensive apartments, etc. About half way up, a Mercedes stopped and parked, out jumped a woman dressed in black. She looked quickly down the hill at the speeding traffic as it approached and started to run across the street. All jacked up on incredibly steep heels on this incredibly steep hill, I couldn't help but think she looked like a two legged "Daddy Long-Legs" spider. I'm sleepy and don't know if that makes sense or not, but it's the best I can do.
Since I usually see only people sleeping on the sidewalk or an occasional skateboarder on my homeward walk, today was a banner day. I fell asleep reading in the sun at my neighborhood square today and need to go dip my head in cocoa butter. I look like boiled lobster with only one claw cooked. (my left hand was covered by my book.)
yeah, dat's a little babble fer ya!
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| Sordid Lives |
| 04.13.05 (11:49 am) [edit] |
Per the suggestion of a new friend, I rented, "Sordid Lives" last night and watched it. It's described as a black comedy about white trash. A few of the key points I particularly like about the movie are the woman who dies because she trips on the prosthetic legs of a man with whom she's had sex, that she wants to be buried in a mink stole with the head still on it, and the daughter, Latrelle, ain't having none of it! Beau Bridges plays a transvestite who's institutionalized because he believes he's Tammy Wynette.
Delta Burke makes a tuna noodle casserole, the kind with the potato chips on top. The women have some serious Texas hair going on and ya just gotta see the rest.
What relevance does this have? None, except that new friends who can recommend a good laugh when you want one are good to have.
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| Eyes Down, Eyes Up |
| 04.09.05 (2:28 am) [edit] |
In high school my name was FAGGOT! Usually the word involved being shoved into a row of lockers and then laughter. My name was always capitalized and spat out with anger. Another topic completely would have me raving about how many of the teachers in my high school, if I had been in possession of the self esteem necessary to do so, would have been cited for criminal negligence because of their affected ignorance of this ongoing violence against some of us students. In reality, those of us who appeared to be gay/lesbian. The shovers and name callers would now be wary of me pressing charges regarding their frequent and merciless hate crimes.
As a Sophomore in high school, my brother was a senior. Even though he and I barely spoke a word to one another during those teenage years, he was ever vigilant regarding my aggressors. He did his fair share of punishing, too, but did with a very heavy bookbag and an insincere, "sorry, asshole". It was years later when he told me he helped me in that first year of my high school. (ours was an elementary/junior high/high school format then) In May of 96, when I was 16, I was outted in school and I had only precious weeks left of my brother's protection before he graduated and I was left alone with 3 fags a couple of dykes and hundreds of students taught to hate us.
I spent the next two years of school in constant flux; trying to be myself, trying to be invisible, trying to fit in, trying not to get thrown down stairs, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. I believed if I didn't look at them and get caught looking, they wouldn't imagine a secret crush I might have on them and then decide to beat me about whatever sexual hangup they might have been experiencing. Truth be told, my crushes were outside of the school or on a few of my teachers.
Years passed and I learned to walk with my head up and make eye contact with people in all situations. I regularly talk to complete strangers in grocery stores whether I'm in SF or Detroit, Ann Arbor, wherever. I talk to old women sitting next to me on the bus. I talk to sales clerks who sell expensive lotions and enjoy what they have to tell me. I learned that I am worthwhile, the blame is to be placed elsewhere and I cheated the world of my potential as an expressive human for years because of the ugly defense mechanism I developed while attending South Redford Thurston. I know that if a hate crime is ever committed against me again, I will survive it and become stronger. As a result I won't live in shame because I am gay. I am not the criminal and that opinion cannot be changed. Eyes up from here on out.
Except for when bartending. I bartend with my head down because I have a focused job to do. As I present the drink to my guest, I look them in the eye and say what it is I'm serving them..(because for real, people forget what they order way more frequently than you can imagine). However, the busier I get, the more my head is down and I can get a little perturbed at myself for not looking at everyone's face and trying to see something special in them. I've learned to ask what someone's name is when I serve them their drink/food/whatever. I then write down their name and try to use it along with eye contact for the duration of our visit together.
Tonight I was dealing with a really weird mix of people. A huge Persian family is marrying two of it's daughter's to a British family. (?) Simply put, after the rehearsal dinner, we were mobbed and my eyes were on my tickets and my liquors and I was mixing and fixing for all I was worth. My manager tonight is a very soft spoken man and has a knack of helping out a the right times. He asked some gentlemen who appeared at the far end of my bar what they might enjoy this evening and I heard them order "three Grey Goose, rocks, two olives, two onions, a lime and three shots of Jaegermeister." I know many of you might not know, but Grey Goose is ultra premium vodka and Jaegermeister tastes like syrupy licorice. I knew these men were trashed and not with the wedding party. I also knew that two of the men were staying in the hotel because they, foolishly, shouted out their names and room numbers. (anybody could then write in those names and room numbers on their drink tickets and get free stuff, get it?) Because I understood the men would be going 'home' in the elevator 60 feet away from me I decided they could be served.
I poured the Geese, and was working on the Jaggers and had just placed them in front of them with all those ridiculous garnishes when one of the men says, "You are so GAY, well ain't you just pretty" (complete with affected lisp) I answered, "Yes I am, thank you for noticing." and looked him directly in the eye with the closest thing to fire as is allowed in a four star. Then the bastard says, "Can I kiss you, little fancy man?" I answered, again with intense eye contact, "Absolutely not!"
For me the episode was over unless these men asked for more drinks. This kind of bullshit has been rolling off my back for years now but I like to speak of it because of its relevance to our ever dividing nation. Unless the gentlemen said something else to which I needed to respond, they didn't exist. My co-worker, all 99 pounds of her, and my very fidgety manager were irrate with the way I had just been treated. (I was trying to remember how to make a MaiTai) My manager soft-spokenly said something to these men that caused them to write me a scribbled, "Sorry" and they left me a $30 tip. Fuck the sorry bullshit. As we say in the business. "'you were so good' and 'thank you so much' doesn't pay my rent, so pay me", So, to the homophobe, "thanks for the dough, yo" However, when they commented loudly about MaryElizabeth's ass, I was up to throwing a tall rocks glass. I know I can take it but I don't expect anyone else to have to be treated badly!
We had already called security to alert about a potential problem in the hotel lobby (policy) and the very Christian, very anti-gay rights, yet pro-respectful treatment of all humans lest they might be saved guard on duty came and asked the front desk agent that all of these men be declined re-admittance to their prepaid rooms and then met them in the lounge with their bags and told them to stay elsewhere, I was, and will be forever, impressed by his action. The action was without anger or aggression, just the simple urging that enough of these men's behavior had excluded them from our elite club.
I looked this security guard in eyes, whom I know wishes to rid me of my sin, and said, "Thank You"
And I meant it.
And, thank you, Dennis, for making that hell that was Thurston, just a bit safer for me.
Eyes up
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| Bad Chicken/Bad Night |
| 04.08.05 (12:26 am) [edit] |
There's so many regulars guests of the hotel in which I work that it takes no time to get to know most of them by name, where they're from, and all that stuff. One woman was in tonight for the first time since I first served her on my first day at the hotel. She was all in a huff that day when she found out that I was to be replacing her favorite bartender. She actually cried. (a little much, but hey, some people cry at Folger's commercials).
She has accepted me and is happy to strike up conversation with me now. Today she did the vague order a little something, kinda hungry but don't want anything heavy or spicy or with garlic in it kind of order and we settled on her getting a plate of the chicken satay which is only light, but is spicy. Some people just don't make sense. So her food arrives and it looked a bit weird to me and after she took a few bites, she said the chicken was just too overdone to eat. I could tell immediately that this was food that had been recooked. I zipped up and got her a delicious dungeness crab caeser salad and had my manager take care of a glass of wine and get rid of the other food from the bill.
My manager is from Italy, and learned to speak English late in life and frequently uses the wrong words. On the report for why the food was returned he wrote, "reasoning for comp is a chicken he can make a way a lady cannot enjoy and will not have it again even he is then maybe to her liking. Wine for the trouble of waiting for crab.
I am going to laugh about that one for days. This manager frequently sings "I believe I can Fly" but says, "I Believe I am Fly". He's absolutely adorable.
Over this last weekend, I met a man and went to the movie theatre with him so we cold see Sin City. Way to violent for me and the night was full of ridiculousness. I fell twice. Once on the street in front of the theatre when I stepped on a rock or something. I bought popcorn and my left arm was having one of its annoying numb/carpal tunnel syndrome days and I threw that on the ground in front of me. While climbing into my theatre seat, I tripped on someone's purse and went flat on my face in the middle of a VERY crowded theater. Not one drop of Diet Coke was spilled, to my credit! Everyone paid way too much attention to my clumsiness and I was mortified. Juan-Carlos was giggling at me because of how many times I'd managed to make an ass of myself and still keep it together. This is a seriouisly big dude and I snuggled down and got his arm around me and promptly fell asleep. So yeah, he ain't callin......Anyway, I called him to make fun of myself and he said he hadn't had so much fun in a long time and couldn't wait to take me out on the weekend. I hope he doesn't expect me to fall again. My knee still hurts
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| Ugly Tattoo Gets Pretty |
| 04.07.05 (12:22 am) [edit] |
I had a bad Celtic knot tattooed on my arm years ago, Recently, I stopped in an ink shop and tried to explain to a man, (the artist) what i wanted to have happen to my nasty, poorly done tattoo.
He told me my expectations were ridiculous and I should consider having the art repaired, not concealed. He then shaved my arm and drew on me with a Sharpie and told me to go away and think about what I could have with this tattoo and made an appointment with me for the following week leaving me the option to cancel.
He was so right on! I let him redraw my flaws and add color back to an otherwise faded bit of nasty knottery. Today I was tattooed for the third time in my life and made a new friend. There are still many flaws in the old work that show, but at least I'm no longer ashamed of this blur of ink that used to live on my right bicep. The details are quite finely placed and now the arm band is something of which I can be proud. Tattooing is painful, but this man's touch was only as brutal as it needed to be. Of course, I'm in love, and want thousands more tattoos......but my crush on Andaloo will keep me being sensible. Unless Andaloo is a secreted ink/needle artist......
I have been stopped several times today and asked about how I keep such beautiful rainbow colors alive in my skin. I just say it's because I'm so pale. The difference is alive and obvious.
Yes, tattoos hurt. But oh, sooooo gooooooood!
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| Oleta Adams and Revelation |
| 04.02.05 (1:13 am) [edit] |
One of the most beautiful songs I've ever heard is sung by Oleta Adams. It's called, "Get Here"
You can reach me by railway, you can reach me by trailway
You can reach me on an airplane, you can reach me with your mind
You can reach me by caravan, cross the desert like an Arab man
I don't care how you get here, just - get here if you can
You can reach me by sail boat, climb a tree and swing rope to rope
Take a sled and slide down the slope, into these arms of mine
You can jump on a speedy colt, cross the border in a blaze of hope
I don't care how you get here, just - get here if you can
There are hills and mountains between us
Always something to get over
If I had my way, surely you would be closer
I need you closer
(interlude, then repeat bridge)
You can windsurf into my life, take me up on a carpet ride
You can make it in a big balloon, but you better make it soon
You can reach me by caravan, cross the desert like an Arab man
I don't care how you get here, just - get here if you can
I don't care how you get here, just -- get here if - you can.
What's so weird about this song for me is that I frequently give it away to someone I know to be heartsick and searching for his/her man to "get with the program". I usually think of the command to "get here" as something within myself. Maybe this goes back to the mantra of, "I don't know, I don't need to know now" with the addition of "I need to know something I'm not sure of yet"
I know I want something to get here if it can, but I just don't know what it is. I'm having a massage on Sunday from a very hunky and playful man who loves to sing Karaoke. Perhaps I'll sing this song and all will be revealed to me.
Today while cycling, I had, "Begin the Beguine" in my head (it helps me keep my pace) and that song always reminds me of my paternal grandmother because I fell in love with a classic recording of it she gave me before she died last year. I've always loved the "Beguine" but hers was a grand recording and she was a woman who would've danced the beguine with her husband before the war killed him. As these two nearly paradoxical songs compete in my cerebrum, (that's the thinking part, right?) I'm thinking of doing a bit of writing about her. Geneology never stops. I was blessed with the intuition to visit my grandmother the day she died and she told me stories about her young romance with her first husband and of her devotion to bringing my father to visit him as often as possible, sometimes riding a train for 40 hours just to visit for 10 hours. Perhaps I'm looking to share with her the lyric, "Get here if you can". Maybe those are her words to me. She was a loving a devoted wife to two men in her lifetime and gracefully saved the most relevant stories for me regarding my direct lineage. Perhaps both of my Grandfathers are beckoning her from beyond to "get here if you can". It was hard for Lois Mae to let go, succumbing to her third battle with cancer. She said to me on her last day of life, "you can tell it won't be long, can't you" I stiffled a sob and agreed it was time. She seemed to be treasuring the experience of dying as she did every other experience in her life. "It's only going to happen once", she might have said, "let's see what this is about." I carried with me pot of brownish mums that day and bought several more pots in cheerful colors and gave them away to my neighbors because winter was coming, I still lived in Michigan and I knew we all needed a bit of a boost from the fall mums. My Grandmother was so proud to hear of what I'd done in her honor. She was a woman to spread joy and cheer.
The call came from hospice that night saying that Lois wouldn't live the night. I think it was my Aunt Sally who said, "Mom always said you need to step away from the body so that the soul can leave." I was not present at this time and don't wish to offend the actual speaker of this with an error in storytelling. My father, and all of his siblings were present, holding on to some part of my Grandmother, trying to comfort her. All let go of their mother and in a matter of minutes, Lois left earth.
There are hills and mountains between us, but I'll always need you closer.
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| Jell-O |
| 04.01.05 (3:20 pm) [edit] |
My aunt has been and opthomalic dispenser for abotu 30 years. She's has oodles of stories to tell about the stupid things people do when they try on their glasses or contacts. A few of my favorites follow and then we move onto other short tales that involve jello, in some way, shape, or not quite a form.
It is a rather common occurrence that a person will put on his newly purchased glasses and then thrash his head about as though the was just in a rollover accident involving a fall from an overpass. After this little bit of seizure, the man will point to his face and his glasses that have gone horribly askew and say, "These don't fit right, they moved!" UM DUH! Like if he didn't be all headbangin' it with his big ass tri-focals on, maybe he'd find the glasses really are doing their job just nicely.
Contact lenses are another problem. I've had problems with my eyes since I was an infant and am completely comfortable sticking a refrigerator magnet in my eye and tap dancing. Not true, I'm not comfortable tap-dancing. So, to cut a bit of slack to most of the people in the world who opt for contact lenses, they are doing so out of vanity but are not at all used to putting things in their eyes. Once used to lenses, most people are comfortable with them, in fact, many people buy several pair in many different "colors-not-found-in-natu re" hues. A normal first time contact lense fitting goes something like this. "Open your eye, look up and you pull down slightly on your lower lid and put the lense on the eye. No, leave your eye open. The lense has to go into your eye..... ok, just try the other eye first" says my Aunt. With a $100 piece of water and saran wrap stuck on their cheek, the new wearer will say, "is it in?" to which my jaded and very sarcastic Aunt (we resemble one another this way) will respond, "Can you see out of that eye?" The patient says, "not really"
"That's because the lense is on your lip"
However, there is a woman from some mid-eastern country who travels to the US to buy her eyewear and is very fond of colored contacts. This woman's accent is incredibly thick and she is prone to talking to a room and all of its occupants, regardless of having been introduced. I call this "my life on a stage" syndrome. One time, after shoving some garishly hazel contact lenses into her eyes, she turns to a tiny, terrified octogenarian near her and blinks her ridiculously made up eyes at her and says, "Deez lenz, do you ting dey luke too jello?" So politely, the old woman replies, "I don't think they look like jell-o at all!"
For my high school graduation party, one of my relatives made a lovely dish that she learned to make during her years as a snow bird in the Florida Keys. I couldn't tell you the proportions exactly, but the dish contained lime Jell-O, Cool Whip, shredded carrots, raisins, cabbage and walnuts. It was a very humid, hot day the day she brought this dish which, oddly, was colored similarly to the hazel lenses mentioned above. The dessert/salad/laxative didn't really set up and when people scooped some onto their plates, it oozed all over everything and made all plates on which it sat look like someone had emptied the contents of their stomachs neatly on the Chinette service. We called it the "Bucket of Barf" and I created a nickname for its creator.
And then there is the type of Jell-O that happens spontaneously when you dismount your bicycle to get a drink of water after a two hour ride. It's incredible in the city today and I set my alarm to go out for a long bike ride. I got out of the city, across the Golden Gate and then climed the road that goes to the Marin headlands. At the top is where the Jell-O incident occurred and I cracked myself up as I tried to stop my legs from vibrating. I could not hold still and just kept walking in circles because the second I stopped moving, I kinda felt like I would sponaneously sit. While pacing like an expectant father, I met a bunch of people who were taking pictures of the bridge. (It looks very small from this point as the climb to the top takes about 35 minutes on cycle) A couple of guys told me about a way to go down through Sausalito that is really scenic and quiet. I followed their advice and rode that way and had a blast but it was way farther than I had planned on riding. But by the time I got back into the city, I had to really think about what route to take so as to avoid a steep hill. Jell-O melts in the heat and I was oozing lime goo out my shoes! OY, so I stopped and caught a bus to get me up and over Russian and Nob Hills.
I'm kinda hungry, maybe I gots some cool whip and prunes in the fridge......
Time to go make vodka martinis infused with star anise, mint, fresh lime and sugar.
They're amazing
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| Are people afraid of happiness? |
| 04.01.05 (1:04 am) [edit] |
This is a bit of a wacko one to get my brain around. In the hotel in which I work, there are several men who have fascinating tales from their lives. I know about many of the tales because they have been told to the women with whom I work. I am naturally talkative with women and little by little, more and more is told to me about the boys. Many of us are gay men and we have this odd tendency to protect ourselves from I'm not sure what.
I like a man who works in a department near mine. He's brilliant, has a ridiculous sense of humor and is always engaging me in trivial conversation. He speaks English as a first language and is caucasian which makes him a rarity in the realm of my attraction. When we first met, I thought he was being coy as his nature, but then I noticed the way he acts with all of the guests and co-workers and realized that he's got a bit of a thing for me. We went onto the subject of dogs and hit a nerve for both of us and I gave him my card with my relevant contact information. No response, but, "Well Mr. Wallclick, have a great weekend".
Today when I popped back into my post behind the bar, he engaged me and asked me about my blog, (how did he know about this?) how much I write about the hotel, and what else I write. Starting from the tale of my Great Grandmother I wrote on St. Pat's day, I've decided to write a story of each of my family memebers with whom I've had a relationship. My parents are avid geneologists and believe that keeping a record going, either written or verbal, keeps a personn alive for many more generations than their bodies could sustain. So I told him about my writing projects of recent. He was all lit up and I have to either decide that he's just not that into me, or he's shyer than I would imagine.
I serve for a living and can talk about anything for hours, but as soon as it's personal, forget it. I'm shutting down!
So to answer my own question. I'm afraid of being talked about. But I believe along side my parents that to talk abotu someone makes them live more strongly. And so I'll keep talking and if this nimrod can't figure out what a friend looks like when it's wrapped in bronze polyester and stuck in front of him, his loss.
I have a serious crush elsewhere anyway. Long ago I began believing I wasn't the sort to settle with one person travelling on one road. Now I'm beginning to believe that settling with one person is a road on which I'd like to travel.
But what road?
And what person?
Last year, before I threw my life to the wind, my mantra was, and is again. "I don't know. I don't need to know now. I'll know when I need to"
Right now, I just don't know
Oh, and whatever Yugo drivin' ho'bag who still hasn't blown her crazy ass off the Mackinac and has caused Slynne to remove her response option from her blog: Drop the fuck dead. Your behaviour has taken from all of us here at tblog something we cherish: A chance to respond to Lynne's incredible thinking. Don't you rub up my feathers the wrong way 'cause I'll get all McNichols on yo' trash ass. If you don't like what you read, stop reading it and leave the rest of us our liberty to do so.
Soap box concluded
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