Tag Archives: Advice

Meanwhile, At the Restaurant: How to Get the Bartender’s Attention

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Having spent an unreasonable amount of time in food service, in several different states in the US, I generally think that I’ve seen most of what can be seen (though I do realize that claiming I’ve seen it all does a grave disservice to “it all”.  But really, people.  I don’t need to know).  Despite the quasi-iconic public concept of the surly bartender who hides in the corner and has to be coaxed out like they’re a mouse and you’ve got a pocket full of cheese, most bartenders do want to offer their customers timely and friendly service in a welcoming atmosphere.  In a tips-based economy, it’s the smartest way to make money.  And in my time in restaurants and bars, I’ve encountered a vast and often confusing array of ways customers deem acceptable to get a bartender’s attention.  In the interest of public service and to help out my bar brethren across this great land, I give you the do’s and don’ts of:

Ta da!

Ta da!

THE DON’TS

The Tapper

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The Tapper thinks the most effective way to get his drink refilled is to tap his empty glass repeatedly on the bar as though he’s tapping out distress signals in Morse code.  Unless you’re warning me about icebergs dead ahead, this is an inappropriate way to communicate.  I can let you tap all day.  Plus, if you’re that anxious that you need to bang your glass on the bar until you get another drink, then you don’t need another drink, and I would recommend trying some yoga, or perhaps taking up meditation.

The Barker

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The Barker thinks that raising his voice above the din of a bar is a surefire way to entice a bartender over.  The Barker doesn’t seem to realize that he is the human equivalent of WRITING IN ALL CAPS and as quickly as I will delete the email written in that manner, so will I dismiss the person who behaves in this manner.  He may express himself in a way that seems callous (Hey, you!) or try to sound charming and/or endearing (Hey, honey, sugarplum, dollface!).  But no matter how you phrase it, he’s still the obnoxious drunk yelling at you from across the bar.  Avoid whenever possible.

The Whistler

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Very closely related to The Barker, The Whistler shares the sentiment that making loud noises to attract the bartender is effective.  The problem is, The Whistler chooses the same manner in which he calls his dog in for dinner.  The Whistler doesn’t always necessarily whistle, per se, but he will clear his throat repeatedly or make “Pssst!” sounds.  One memorable time, the owner of the bar I worked in was on duty when a customer tried to attract his attention by making that repeated “psst psst psst” sound you make while trying to convince a cat to come near you.  The owner turned around and, without missing a beat said, “You’d better have some Friskies in your pocket if you’re calling to me that way.”  At least that once, the errant customer grew momentarily embarrassed enough to stammer out an apology before asking for a refill.

The Grabber

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If I’m ever back behind the bar, do not–and I mean DO NOT–ever reach all the way across the bar and touch me.  I will wreck you.

And so we come to the end of my general guidelines for DON’T bar behavior.  This is by no means an exhaustive list, but it’s a good place to start.  Do note that the “DON’T” behaviors are generally demeaning and/or hostile and/or aggressive.  Use that as your measuring stick for what not to do, and you should be off to a good start.

THE DO’S

The Cash Presenter

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Most bartenders, you see, are fairly bright, and understand that being attentive to the people standing or sitting at the bar impacts their tips.  If someone stands at the bar with money in their hands, bartenders will generally investigate such an event because people don’t randomly walk around holding money.  In a bar, it’s a specific signal that means, “I want something and I’m ready to pay.”  Yes, it’s true.  Money talks.

The Discreet Signaler

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You can gesture to your bartender, so long as you’re chill about it.  If your bartender looks like he’s in the middle of a conversation and isn’t likely to end it any time soon, you can gesture.  If you want to get drinks ASAP for yourself and that fine individual you’re successfully chatting up, you can gesture.  Or if you realize you need to leave, you can do the universal “I’m pretending to sign my name” gesture.  Gesturing does, for the most part, imply necessity so don’t go overboard pointing and waving at will!  Then you become the barfly who cried wolf, and your gesturing just becomes a silent extension of The Tapper and nobody needs to cross into hybrid signals because then everyone is unhappy.

The Empty Glass Bearer

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The Empty Glass Bearer is the mellowest of all patrons and has an inherent understanding that a bartender intends to do his job to the best of his abilities.  A bartender who’s even half-paying attention knows that an empty glass requires some sort of attention.  Empty Glass Bearers tend to be easy customers for bartenders to deal with–they’re not overly demanding, they don’t need babysitting, and their lack of aggressive behavior towards the bartender generally means the bartender will like them.  Bars are a great place to have a high-fivin’, belly-bumpin’ good time, but not necessarily with the bartender, who has five or fifteen or sixty other people to manage simultaneously.  Have faith that the bartender will get to you.  While people may think the squeaky wheel gets the grease, when you’re in a bar it’s the quiet glass bearer who gets the best consistent service.

It’s true.

I’d love to hear about other bartender-approach behaviors that I might have forgotten or have blocked from my memory.  Feel free to comment!

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Zamboni Lady Encounters the Worst Sex Advice Ever

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DISCLAIMER: The Zamboni Lady is not a doctor, nor does she play one on TV.  She is, simply, a busybody who wants to know everyone else’s business.  The advice, while well-meant, is not meant to substitute for legal advice or protection, indicate a definitive way to live one’s life, or in any way imply that you should take her advice any more seriously than you would the advice of the bestie of your bestie, given out over a long and tear-soaked evening of nachos and margaritas.

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Recently, I’ve come across the worst advice I think I’ve ever seen in an advice column, and this is for real.  Here’s the problem:

Dear [Advice Columnist],
My boyfriend of one year and I are both recently graduated twentysomethings living at home like true millennials. While this has caused a few bumps in our love life, his mother is very open, liberal and allows me to spend the night at their house with him. Usually his mother gives us plenty of space, except for insisting on making us coffee and breakfast some mornings. The other day as we were being intimate, his mother called him on his cellphone. She often calls even when she knows we’re in the house so as not to barge in. This time, he answered the phone and continued to have sex with me as he talked to her. I was livid and disturbed, not to mention feeling cheap in a very Oedipal way. We talked it over at length and he recognized that it was inappropriate and immature, and he apologized. But I can’t help feeling that this should send a self-respecting young woman packing and running. Am I overreacting?

—Don’t Answer

OK, seems pretty icky, right?  And pretty straightforward.  There may, legitimately, be a time or a reason for answering the phone mid-sex but when that time comes, all booty should stop.  When your boyfriend answers the phone during sex and keeps getting down, it seems to me that he bought himself an express ticket to the curb.  But that’s not the advice this person was given.  Instead, she was basically informed that her instincts preserving her sense of self-worth were off and ultimately, she’s an insignificant tart.  Read on, as I interpret the subliminal context of this woman’s advice.

Dear Don’t,

Obviously what he should have said was, “Mom, we’re in the middle of coitus, so don’t interrupt us.”

I mean, what else was he supposed to do?  He can’t stop having sex because he decided the phone was more important than you!  He’s a guy, if they don’t get that sort of release the sperm backs up and it gets really painful.

Millennials assert that one of their distinguishing characteristics is the seamless ability to multitask, and if you accept the thrust of that argument,

HAHA!  ”Thrust”, get it?  Get it?  Get it?  Yeah.  You got it, all right.

then your boyfriend was only demonstrating his prowess.

More haha!  ”Prowess”, get it?  I feel absolutely justified in abusing you to your face and telling you that you should count yourself lucky to have your phone-answering man.  Why? Because your question has quickly become invalid; you’re a dirty whore having sex in your boyfriend’s mother’s house.

You’re also looking at the wrong Greek myth to explain what happened.

I need to make you feel stupid whenever possible.

I don’t think the events revealed an attraction to his mother, but to the siren song of the cellphone, a device to which people of all generations often feel more intimacy and loyalty than to their human partners.

So suck it up.

I’ll also offer the following excuse on your boyfriend’s behalf since he neglected to: Maybe when he realized it was Mom calling, he worried that since she knew he was home, if he didn’t answer she might go looking for him and find herself barging in flagrante.

Mother is so sexually naive that she lets you spend the night, but thinks you spend it sleeping.

Alternatively, being in his childhood bedroom may have kicked in the Pavlovian response that when Mom calls, he responds.

A boy’s best friend is his mother, Norman.

Whatever his subliminal thought process, of course his answering the phone ruined your mood. But this is just a tiny hump

HUMP!  OH MY GOD I AM ON A FUCKING ROLL!

in your relationship and not a reason to flee. I’m sure he’s learned his lesson, but the next time you two get romantic, make certain to lock the door and turn off the phone—don’t even let him think about leaving it on vibrate.

Because a phone that’s turned off will completely deter a worrisome, barging-in mother.   VIBRATE!  *tee hee* p.s. I hate your taut young vagina.

I am not making this up.

So let me do what I can to correct an egregious wrong, though I don’t know if the person who asked this will ever see it.  Your boyfriend absolutely took you for granted in the most fundamental and dismissive way possible.  At that moment, you were no more emotionally relevant to him than a fleshlight.  If, weeks later, you still feel betrayed, that’s understandable, and you need to take the time to figure out if you ever think you can trust him again.  Will he always jump at his mother’s call?  Will he always put his cell phone ahead of you in his priority list?  That is not OK.  Start to watch his other behaviors–does he tune you out in favor of Facebook/Halo/Game of Thrones while you’re trying to have a conversation about your day?  Can he leave a text alone?  Is he always like that with other people, or does he only do that sort of thing with you?  I can’t tell you whether or not you should bring your relationship to an end, but I can tell you that if his behavior doesn’t make you feel good about yourself, then you seriously need to reconsider if he’s worth your time.  Good luck.

Bad Fashion Ideas: Springtime of Psoriasis

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I have to admit, I was surprised when I was at the mall the other day.  The women’s clothing had…well, I can’t quite say there was a dearth of ugly clothes, but…a relative dearth of ugly clothes…for sale.  Shock me shock me shock me!  Though you can rest assured, dear reader, that there were indeed unattractive and unflattering items out there aplenty.  Imagine if you had a hundred things, and five were great and five were OK and the other ninety things were crap.  That’s how it normally is out there in anchor store mall land.  This weekend, it was more like, if you had a hundred things, five of these things were great and TEN were OK, and the other eighty-five things were crap.  A slight change for the better.  Slight.  I will consider it a blip.

As always, these pictures were taken at anchor stores, all chains, most of them national.  Despite my normal, self-imposed “no clearance” rule, I have included one clearance item in this selection, but only because it was too ugly not to immortalize.  In fact, before we even get involved in this season’s fashion miseries I’ll post the clearance, just to get it out of the way.  Though, maybe I’m being too hard on the clothing.  I mean, what girl wouldn’t want to look like she’s wearing a shirt flashing code from The Matrix?

You are in the Matrix, in more ways than one.

You are in the Matrix, in more ways than one.

Thankfully, this was on the $2 clearance rack, so there’s some hope for humanity.

Now.  Let’s get down to business.

First up: pants!

I know shopping for jeans can be a brutal process.  It can be frustrating, even devastating, if you feel like you can’t find pants that fit well and look nice.  But for the love of all that is holy, WHYYYYY am I seeing a preponderance…a disturbing amount…of elastic-waist jeans.

Stop this.  Right now.

Stop this. Right now.

They won’t fit correctly.  They won’t make your ass look fantastic.  They will make you look like you’ve stepped into a Hefty bag, cinched it at your waist and cut in some leg holes.   These are “I’ve given up” pants, the kind you wear because you know you must drape something over your body to avoid arrest.  Don’t give up!  You’re better than that.  And frankly, I’ll have to look at you wearing them, and you’ll look like this:

Worst. Mannequin. Ever.

Worst. Mannequin. Ever.

Yes, those really are elastic-waist pants on display.  The unfortunate taper in the legs led me to believe so on sight, but then?  I checked.  Display people, please!  Get off the crack, and stop prominently displaying ugly clothing!  It leads the underinformed shopper to think this sort of thing is acceptable.

Patterned jeans are coming back into fashion.  I remember them from about a thousand years ago, and they can be fun.  Or, they can look like you sat in sherbet.

What the hell?

Sherbet-stained jeggings.  All-around design fail.

They could look like you put them on and rolled around in wet sidewalk chalk.

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Jump through these and you can have a tea party with Mary Poppins.

Or, you can get one confused print that would look more at home on wallpaper in two–count ‘em, TWO!–pant lengths.  Way to use that overpurchased lot of material, Gloria Vanderbilt!

These would make even Kate Upton look frumpy.

These would make even Kate Upton look frumpy.

I can’t even express how deeply, how profoundly I believe that Gloria Vanderbilt needs to be stopped.  More on that soon.

Of course, if you go to a store and select this:

Dear designer: why do you hate women so much?

Dear designer: why do you hate women so much?

Behold! A double-knit, shrimp-pink, cropped, elastic waist, cargo pant.  Never in my life have I seen so much wrong in one item of clothing.  If you go to the store and deem this acceptable?  Hopefully, your family is reading this and contacts me so we can stage an intervention.  Help is out there, family!  Be strong.

So, back to Gloria Vanderbilt.  The only thing that gives me any sort of comfort regarding her current line is that it’s been sold to a design group and GV herself isn’t responsible for what they produce.  Because I cringe–cringe, I say!–at the thought that the mother of a gay man would reintroduce the velour sweat suit to the world.

Aaaaaggggggghhhhh!  My eyes!  My eyes!

Aaaaaggggggghhhhh! My eyes! My eyes!

Whoever did this should be pilloried in the town square.  Stop it.  You’re hurting people.

And so.  On to shirts.

Shirts, this season, seem to suffer from design mashup.  Perhaps there’s a glut of newbies in the design departments.  Perhaps an order came down from Upstairs that said they have to find ways to use up all the bits of odds and ends floating around the design shop.  Perhaps the hat department is getting a little too free with their mercury.  Whatever the reason, shirts are a discombobulated mess.

For example, Judas Priest-esque studs do not belong on a career separate button down rayon blouse.

Imagine your bank teller in this.

Imagine your bank teller in this.

There is, apparently, a picture of Alexa Chung wearing a remarkably similar shirt to a NYC screening of Inglourious Basterds in 2009.  Even fashion icons can have an off moment.  It was a bad idea four years ago; it’s a bad idea today.

Nor do studs belong on a…well, have a look for yourself.

Let me count the ways.

Let me count the ways.

I imagine the conversation about the design of this shirt went something like this:

Can you give me a sweatshirt cut, and make sure we use a gray knit emulate that classic sweatshirt look?
Check!
Great.  Let’s leave the seams unfinished on the upper.
OK!
Hey, don’t we have an assload of mini gold studs?
Yeah.
Let’s stick ‘em on the shoulders.  Ladies like glittery shoulders.
They do?
Yeah!  Of course they do!  Great big glittery shoulders, like they have hollowed out disco balls over their arms.
Oh.  OK.  [a minute later] Hey, boss.  We have a problem.
What’s that?
We don’t have enough gray knit material here to make a full order of shirts.  We only have the rayon left over from those studded white button-down shirts that  didn’t sell.
Uh…

What should we do?

[thinks for a minute] [snaps fingers] I know!  Keep the upper sweatshirt-and-studs design!  Then block it, and make the bottom half rayon.
What do we do when we get to the bottom of the shirt?
Use as much of the leftover material as you can.  They say “boxy”, we say “flowing”.
But it will be so ugly!
So?
Ummmm.  OK.  What price point should we set it at?
Hmmm….twenty bucks will make it seem chintzy.  It will be tough to get people to pay eighty bucks for a sweat shirt.  Split the difference!  Fifty bucks!
Forty-nine, sir.  This way the customer won’t feel like they’re spending fifty bucks on a shirt.
Yes, yes.  Excellent.  Use psychology against them.  I like it.  You’ll go far in this business, young grasshopper.

Because really.  What other explanation can there be?

This fancified sweat shirt theme was prevalent in the stores; you can see it here in washed-out orange.

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It’s as though this shirt has a beautiful infestation of spangled tapeworm.

And here, in colorblocked blue.

And make that horizontal line go straight across the waist, so it looks nice and wide.

And make that horizontal line go straight across the waist, so it looks nice and wide.

Or…oh good God…

Now this is just being mean.

Now this is just being mean.

Prints were also kind of a mess, from the joyless…

It is so glum it even swallows the glitter from the studs embellishing the neckline.

It is so glum it even swallows the glitter from the studs embellishing the neckline.

To the garish

Do you have something that would make me look like a youth pastor for matadors?

Do you have something that would make me look like a youth pastor for matadors?

To the poorly executed.

Can you make those yellow remembrance ribbons loop right over my nipples, please?

Can you make those yellow remembrance ribbons loop right over my nipples, please?

And then there’s this.  If Eeyore were magically turned into a peach and gray, paisley print, jersey knit, zip-up cardigan, he would look like this.

I just want to give it a hug.

Thanks for noticing me.

And normally, I love everything about Paris.  Except this.

*find a happy place, find a happy place*

*find a happy place, find a happy place*

But the look I saw in clothing this season that shocked me the most?  There are far, far too many clothes made from material with such unfortunate texture that they would make the wearer look like she was suffering from some kind of skin disease.  There’s fish scale disease.

Note the scaly mosaic and the "dirty" look.

Note the scaly mosaic and the “dirty” look.

This unfortunate crepe shirt bears a striking resemblance to the full-blown effects of leprosy.  I’ll let you Google full-color photos for yourself, if you want to be completely freaked out.

The resemblance between this shirt and a leper's skin is pretty alarming.

The resemblance between this shirt and a leper’s skin is pretty alarming.

Of course, if you prefer to not resemble something contagious, you could always choose to look like you’ve been in a fire.

Only you can prevent this look from going public.

Only you can prevent this look from going public.

And of course, there is the shirt that for all the world emulates the lumpy plaques that are the heartbreak of psoriasis.

People.  No.

People. Stop the madness.

All I ask is that you think before you buy.  There are other shirts out there, you don’t need the psoriasis shirt.  Or the Eeyore cardigan.  Or dismal Paris.

And I swear on my grandmother’s grave…You.Do.Not.Need…or want…elastic waist jeans.  Exercise your freedom of choice!  Don’t settle for ugly!  Don’t let them tell you something is fashionable when you know it isn’t.  When you shop, imagine you have a little Grumpy Cat on your shoulder.

...Be the grumpy cat...

…Be the Grumpy Cat…

It’s a tough world out there.  Let’s dress it up in style.

Happy shopping!

How to Stay Motivated During a Workout

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This pretty faithfully retraces my thought process during a particularly difficult workout.  Or maybe I was just kind of whupped and didn’t want to do it, I don’t know.  Works particularly well for Zumba.  And don’t think I didn’t put this to use this very morning in BodyPump.

Thanks, three-year-old!

Clearly, the mentality of a three-year-old appeals to me.

Funny, where inspiration comes from sometimes.

Have a great workout!  No tired.

Dinner is Served! Cooking with Campbell’s Soup (1970)

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A dear, dear friend of mine, knowing my deep and abiding taste for kitsch, sent me a copy of the Campbell Soup Company’s Cooking With Soup: 608 Skillet Dishes, Casseroles, Stews, Sauces, Gravies, Dips, Soup Mates and Garnishes.  Once I picked myself up after having major swoonies, I thought…Good Lord, food photography has made tremendous strides in visual appeal over the intervening decades.

*blergh*

*blergh*

Feast your eyes (if not, surely, your taste buds) on the cover, which features a photo of the Penthouse Chicken.  I can only imagine that it’s deemed “penthouse” because it will make the diner feel as though they’re eating the swankiest of chickens in all the land and not because you want to put it up high, far out of reach of the unsuspecting who might get their hands on it.  Mmmm, where can I get mystery meat covered in congealed red glop, garnished with cross-sections of femur?  Let the noms begin!

I’ve never been a fan of cooking with soup, unless the thing I was eating was actually soup.  I mean, I’m not a big eater of processed foods to begin with, though I do confess to a weakness for chipotle chicken Lean Pockets and do indeed keep a few canned soups on hand.  Hey, I must eat in order not to die and like everyone else, can be lazy in my hunter-gathering.  I’m no stranger in looking for things that adequately meet my needs.  Canned soup provides a heaping dose of adequacy; it adequately keeps me alive, it provides adequate flavor so I don’t want to kill myself out of boredom, it keeps me adequately full until my next meal.  It also provides–and I say this looking at a can of Healthy Request tomato soup–sodium (normally, in relatively high amounts), high fructose corn syrup, potassium chloride and monopotassium phosphate (both of which are also used as fertilizers).

What it doesn’t provide is excellence.  Granted, there can only be so much excellence one can expect from food flavored with fertilizers.  The kitschmonger in me has gone berserk over this book.  It’s got the space-age sensibility that one truly CAN open up a bunch of packages and make things easy for Mom in the kitchen; it gives the feeling that we’re only a few short steps away from a food-o-matic a la The Jetsons.

Image from smcbydesign.com

Image from smcbydesign.com

I love the pithy word play, the recipes for “Souper Saucy Meat Loaf” and “Spread-a-Burgers”.  I can’t look at the section called “Soup on the Rocks” without flinching.  I rejoice over the inclusion of a recipe for THAT tuna casserole…you know the one, with the frozen peas and the cream of celery soup and the crumbled potato chips on top?  In this book they call it “PERFECT TUNA“.  *killing me*  Conversely, the foodie in me weeps as I page through the Great Big Book of Adequate. with all 608 recipes chock-full of nothing special.

Though “special” is a word that can mean many things.  And I think I am wrong.  I think I need to redefine what I consider to be “special”.

There were a few recipes that were particularly notable in their horror.  In all fairness, I just got this book yesterday so there are probably more than a few recipes that should strike terror into the hearts of readers, but two really stood out in their ability to churn the stomach and ruin the appetite.

Meat Shell Pie!

Meat Shell Pie!

Bonus!  You get three recipes here for the price of one.  But yes.  Meat shell pie, so lurid it inspired my boyfriend to write a song about it.  What you do, see, is you press out the ground beef to make a shell, and then you press halved hot dogs into said shell so it looks like a clock.  Then you top it with soup and sauteed onions, bake, and then top with Velveeta and bake again.  It upset me that the good people of Campbell’s didn’t include a picture of said meat shell pie and so, I drew a diagram.  So you could visualize the majestic nature of…the Pie.

Mmmmm...MMMM!

Mmmmm…MMMM!

Hot dog eaters take note: the color I used for the frankfurters (since I lack a light pink marker) is called “greyed lavender” and really, it’s not far off from a hot dog’s natural color.  I’m not judging, I’m just stating the facts.

Who wants seconds???

I was floored when I was thumbing through this book and realized they had included a desserts section.  I will grant that one may use canned soup for many things–casseroles, sauces, apparently cocktails–but the concept of using soup in dessert had eluded me.

You can only have this once you finish your meat shell pie!

You can only have this once you finish your meat shell pie!

Look, it’s lovely, isn’t it?  Looks all moist and delish.  Walnuts.  Candied plums for garnish.  What could go wrong?

Oh, right.  It’s made with tomato soup.

Nothing is ever as simple as it seems.

Nothing is ever as simple as it seems.

I can’t decide whether to be strangely comforted or plain-old revolted by the option to add raisins.

I appreciate cooking short cuts.  I’m no stranger to making food and freezing it for another time or another use entirely.  Opening a can of soup is a viable lazy-night alternative for sure but it’s no substitute for a real meal.  I blame cooking like this for our mental distance from the reality of our food, and where it comes from, and how it’s prepared, and what’s in it, and what it does to us.  When we cook like this, we cede control over what goes in to ourselves and the bodies of the people we love.  Take back control.  Understand your food.  Cook fresh, when feasible.

Let me put it this way: Were I to host a dinner party in Hell, this would be on the menu.  And if you think this book was written in 1970 and so, is outdated and nobody cooks like this anymore, let me remind you, just for starters…

http://busycooks.about.com/od/startwithseries/a/cannedsoup.htm

What I’m Watching: The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey

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I went to see The Hobbit last night.  It was…OK.  Purists, I’ll spare a thorough discussion of if it sticks closely to the book or not (though, it doesn’t really and it’s not like I can help myself to make some comparisons) and it’s the genre of movie (elves, swords, gruesome antagonists, magic) that you either like, or you really really don’t.  Though I do have a few things to say about it…

1. The movie is long and far too padded.  I know Peter Jackson (from hereon known as PJax) and co. are planning to turn it into a trilogy, and for that I say shame on them and call greedy shenanigans.  It is a good book.  It is even a great book.  It is also a simple story written for young readers, and has few of the complexities of plot that followed when JRR Tolkein wrote The Lord of the Rings.  I can see a two-movie deal, but not three.  Breaking it into a movie trilogy does a disservice to the story by diluting (or inventing new) action and creating a series of movies that can’t stand independently; part of the genius of the LOTR film series is that, while clearly connected in the telling of an epic tale, they are all still different films.  This is like a TV miniseries I can’t see the end of for another two years.  Feh.  Dirty pool.

2. It is gorgeous.

I mean, really.  Look at that place!  The mountains, the lush forests, the patch of farmland that’s become The Shire…perfect!  Set design?  Costuming?  The accessories?  The swords?  Unimpeachable!  It is 166 minutes of pure visual feast, well done indeed.

3.  Except for when it isn’t.  In the book, the character of Radagast the Brown only appears once, delivers information, and goes back into the wilderness.  He’s absolutely portrayed as a hermit-ish loner who is much more comfortable around flora and fauna than he is around things that talk and drink tea.  He wasn’t portrayed as the caricature of some high-strung eccentric adventure-hippie.  (Nor did he have a rabbit-drawn sleigh; see “long and padded”.)  But.  I could deal with that.  The bird nesting in his hair?  I could deal with that.  The pseudo-comic relief of magicking the hedgehog back to life?  I could deal with that.  It was the matted line of bird shit from said nesting bird that ran down Radagasts’s face and was all in his hair and beard that sent me over the edge.  I kind of couldn’t look directly at the screen when he was on and literally (in a grammarian-approved way, absolutely and sadly not figuratively) threw up in my mouth a little at one point because of it.  It’s not like I can’t “handle” grim things on a screen.  I didn’t mind the giant goiter and bepustuled look of the Great Goblin.  I didn’t mind Azog the Defiler and his weird gaping scars.  I even wanted there to be a bit more gore, because they dispatch a ton of enemies–especially in the goblin caves–with precious little blood.  But Radagast’s portrayal was expanded into something so…weird…and unpleasant, that I completely fail to understand.

4.  Martin Freeman was born to play Bilbo.  I’ve enjoyed him in everything I’ve seen him in (and I just looked at his filmography; I still have a lot of watching to do), though he will always have a place in my heart for his work as John, the tentative, sweet, entirely vanilla body double who meets the equally tentative Judy while working on a porno together.

In The Hobbit, Freeman manages to bring Bilbo’s complexities to life; he is a homebody who wants to be back in his hole while having an adventure and becoming a loyal, trusted member of his company.  His life has been sheltered, but he is still brave.  I believe him when he gets the look on his face indicating that he’s facing something he clearly doesn’t want to do, but goes in and does it anyway.  Bilbo embodies a difficult combination of characteristics: he is stodgy, clever, fussy, warm, well aware of social expectations and still has a deep-seated global interest.  Freeman finds a way to express all of this while making him entirely endearing.  Thank you, Martin Freeman.

5.  I can’t believe PJax included some of the songs.  I mean…seriously, Hobbit fans…who among you has not skipped past all the singing in the book?  None of you?  Yep, me neither.  Did we really need “That’s What Bilbo Baggins Hates” in the movie?  It’s not like when I think of dwarves I say, “Oh, they’re such a musical people.”  Come on.  I kept expecting David Bowie to wander over from the set of Labyrinth and bust out a little “Magic Dance“.

6.  Wargs are badass.

7.  What.  Is UP (underline, underline, underline)?  With the hot dwarf?

Hellooooo, Thorin.

No no no no no no no no!  They’re lumpy and bulbous, not fricking leather clad-moody hero-Richard Armitage-long, meaningful stares-buckling some swash-level of hot.  Now I have to go and rethink my entire concept of the sexuality of Middle Earth.

8.  Andy Serkis should be knighted for his portrayal of Gollum.  Check him out reading the part live, to an audience.

Damn, son.  Those are some serious chops.

Would I see it again?  Would I recommend it?  Will I see the sequels?  Oh, heavy sigh.

I will see it again, when I own it on Blu-Ray, because I am exactly the person PJax knows he can manipulate out of her money.  Which is exactly why I will also see the sequels.  He’s got me by the shorthairs, damn him.  But no, I wouldn’t recommend going to see it, not as a story, not on its own.  There are some wonderful points to it, but I don’t believe the story is successfully told.  It’s too padded.  There’s too much exposition and not enough plot and character development.  The movie would be much tighter if it were done in two parts…I mean…it’s not like they tried to break Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows into a stand-alone trilogy. Why would this merit three parts, unless it were to extract a third viewing out of my pocket?  Oh, PJax.  I thought you were awesome, once.  I loved your vision, once.  Now?  Meh, not quite as much.

Bad Fashion Idea: Groan for the Holidays

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Not surprisingly, the Christmas season and its attendant need to shop has found me, once again, at the mall.

It pains me.  Not the Christmas season, mind you.  I live in Christmasland at home, and spend a full month making cookies and candies and watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and figuring out which family members I’m going to travel to see during the holidays.  It is the mall that pains me.  While I am admittedly not a tremendous fan of the mall after years of retail employment, it still isn’t the presence of the mall itself that causes me agony.  It is the selection of “festive”, “holiday”, “seasonal” clothes presented to women as viable clothing choices.

Grumpy Cat offers his opinion of women's clothing this season.Photo from funnyjunk.com

Grumpy Cat offers his opinion of women’s clothing this season.
Photo from funnyjunk.com

In this edition I don’t even delve into things like shoes, as I was so preoccupied with the horror that is the clothes.  They provide plenty of grist for this mill.  As always, these are taken at major chains, and all the clothes are prominently displayed on feature tables or end caps and racks, not tucked onto some bar on a back wall, away from most prying eyes.

There seem to be a few unfortunately prevalent themes in this season’s clothing choices, including a weird reinterpretation of ’80s-style fashion, capturing some of the neon and none of the innovation that made ’80s clothing so noteworthy.  I’ll ease you into things.  We’ll start with this.

80s revisited poorly

This is not how you show you {{{heart}}} the ’80s.

A grey cotton knit, scoop neck, V-back shirt with a neon yellow lace back insert would have been a mistake back then, and it’s a mistake now.  Quick!  Get me a functional neutral in a casual knit!  And then pair it with an example of the most washed-out neon lace you can find!  Because then you can have a double-win; world’s most unattractive color AND a shirt with a split personality, as it is now neither casual nor dressy.  Excellent.

Speaking of split personalities, this two-tone sweater is one I’m having a hard time figuring out.  I believe that it’s pigment-dyed,

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There was a matching neon-yellow sweater folded next to this one, but the color didn’t come across on camera quite as well. It was even more hideous. You’re welcome.

Though considering how stiff and unyielding this material was, it could be shellacked.

Another ’80s trend that refuses to die is colorblocking.  It’s something I always find vaguely problematic because for some sick, sick reason, designers cut the horizontal lines across the widest parts of clothing, so you look like you’ve got giant shoulders or hugely wide hips.  Nice.  Thanks.  Like I don’t have enough issues.  But this?

 

Let me count the ways in which this colorblocking is a mistake.

Let me count the ways in which this colorblocking is a mistake.

Seems like a recipe for social discomfort.  Colorblocking that bisects your boobs is one (poorly executed) thing, but when that’s combined with material that doesn’t breathe and is guaranteed to make your pits extra-sweaty and laden with stench?  Double trouble.  In every sense of the term.

Layering was super-big in the ’80s (how many popped collar-Izods can you wear?).  So were animal prints.   So were zippers.  If you had any sort of ’80s sensibility, you’d be able to put them together so that God willing you could look all cool and rock star-like, and end up looking like this.

Cyndi Lauper, showing us what ’80s trends were all about. Photo from weheartit.com

NOT like this.

 

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Neither bad-ass nor fashionably tasty. Poor misguided shirt!

When you think of ’80s fashions, you think of the funky, layered, bangley-spangley, ripped and zippered and lace petticoated rock star clothes.  But among the power elite (or those who fancied themselves as such, there was a suiting trend.

The ’80s power suit. One color, EVERYWHERE. Picture from http://victoriablack4.wordpress.com

p.s. Check out the phone!

This sparked a trend for monochromatic dressing, and in the current flaccid resurgence of ’80s clothing, there has been a nod to the concept of the monochromatic.

Unfortunately, this monochromatic palette makes one look like a giant stalk of celery.

The opposite of power suiting.

Unfortunately, this monochromatic palette makes one look like a giant stalk of celery.

But not every article of unfortunate clothing was ’80s inspired.  As it is cold out, vests are trending.

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Mini-giraffe print microfleece. It doesn’t matter to which ethnicity you belong; wearing this will always make you look like you’ve got some kind of skin disease.

Geometric microfleece.  Feels as bad as it looks.

Geometric microfleece. Feels as bad as it looks.

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Wait…what the…?

I just want to point this out: this is a hip-length sweater vest with a fur-trimmed scalloped edge.  Oh.  Holy.  Crap.  But it doesn’t quite match my favorite vest…

Shiny! Pink! Quilted!  What could be so bad, right..?

Shiny! Pink! Quilted! What could be so bad, right..?

People, people, people.  This looks like you’re wearing a prop of a zombie’s lunch from the set of The Walking Dead.  While I’m all for celebrating your inner youness and am no stranger to perhaps ill-chosen fashion statements, I am at a loss to understand how looking like a happy meal for the undead is either attractive or boosts the self-esteem.

Since this is the holiday season, embellished clothing is all over the place.  I know I’ve already railed about the misery that is appliqued clothing, but it keeps showing up and I feel  bears repeating.  Every.  Time.

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Please. Explain.

I mean yes, sure, cardinals are lovely.  Hang a picture of them in your kitchen, get a decorative holiday plate.  I have one.  But for the love of all that is holy, you don’t see me strapping my decorative cardinal plate to my chest and wearing it outside, do you?

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SQUIRRELS?

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Glum paisley.

As someone profoundly interested in the state of paisley, I have to say…this is the grimmest, saddest paisley ever.  As the bib.  On some sort of weird, ersatz Germanic-looking puffed shirt in the thirty-year-old color palette in dusty rose and sage.  My bedroom was these colors about 900 years ago.  I changed that color scheme for a reason.

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This is what the greeters wear at the Christmas store in Hell.

They.  Are.  Puffy.  I know I’ve returned to the cardinal theme again but here’s the deal.  The embellishment? Is done in puffy paint.  PUFFY PAINT.  So they’re slightly tacky and smell a little funny.  There’s no saving the idea of this image; it is entirely unattractive.  If it were on a decorative plate, I would break it.

Whosoever may be designing shirts festooned with seasonal fancies of this ilk, heed my words: you are hurting America.  Nobody feels great/sexy/confident in clothes that look like this.  This is “I give up” clothing for women who have lost their sense of selves and are aching for some miniscule level of self-expression, even though these shirts give tacit approval to mom jeans and white sneakers.  Please stop.  If you can’t do it for yourself, then do it for your country.

And finally, you can’t have the holidays without a little luxe, a little ruffle, a little sparkle, a little shine.

What is it with the attached clothing?  Can't people be trusted to layer for themselves?

What is it with the attached clothing? Can’t people be trusted to layer for themselves?

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Meet the pink shirt’s even more bland yet weirdly offensive cousin.

It’s not just that I dislike attached clothing (because I really DO dislike attached clothing), but from a practical standpoint, bear this in mind: these clothes are made from mixed-weight materials, which will wash differently, wear differently and eventually lose shape, differently.  It’s just a matter of time before one part of this shirt poops out on you and you have to throw the whole thing away.  If you had two separate pieces, you could care for them as their material requires.  They’d last longer, stay in shape better, and waste you less money in the process.  Just sayin’.

There also seemed to be a common idea amongst designers as a whole that it would be in the public interests to present goods that were puffy and orangey, as though they thought to incorporate the following design ideas into an article of clothing, with a little sparkle for some zazz.

And...GO!

And…GO!

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Hmmmm….not quite.

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Bingo!

I adore Gossamer the Monster.  But!  I’ve never wanted to look like him.  Or like a tricked-out car.  Or like a set of louvers.  Think before you buy.

Remember the Seinfeld “puffy shirt” episode?  (Full disclosure: I’ve never seen a full episode of Seinfeld, but he so permeated the culture that even I know of “puffy shirt” and “soup Nazi” and “the bet”.  And I digress.)

There’s a very good reason to not want to look like a pirate.  How about…like a shimmery pirate?

Ooh, just like an angel.

Ooh, just like an angel.

I was hoping to find a shirt that will make me look billowy.  I long to billow.  The only way this shirt is an appropriate clothing option is if you’re posing as lead angel for next year’s Christmas cards.  Puffy shirts–and more importantly, peasant shirts like this one, when you look at the cut and the rope collar tie–are supposed to be simple.  Of the people.  Peasant-ish, if you will.  It’s not that you can’t reinterpret a shirt, but sparkled and faux-glammed like this?  Just doesn’t make sense.

I was also hoping to find a turquoise microfiber jacket with faux snakeskin trim.

Check!

Check!

I honestly don’t think I need to say anything more about this.

So, when putting together your look to wear to the holidays, when everyone is tarted up and you spend time with friends and family you haven’t seen all year, may I recommend NOT wearing a heavy-weight cardigan that’s been dipped in a Hefty bag?

What-huh?

What-huh?

Unless, of course, you’re planning to wear it with these leggings.

Black lace over a nude liner.  Leggings.

*headdesk*

Because this brings the sexy.

I looked up figures and they vary wildly, but the one that was somewhat in the middle-ish said that American women spend $118 per month on clothing.  Times twelve months, is $1,416 per year, and times 65 (I figure an woman who lives to 80 starts buying–or at least directing the purchase of–her own clothes when she’s 15 or so) means she spends $92,040 on clothing alone, never mind other methods of beautification, like makeup.  Ladies, please.  Times are tough, money is tight.  Spend your money thoughtfully, and remember these things: ’80s fashion went out of fashion for a reason.  Vests can be difficult to wear, so consider them carefully, especially if they look like intestines.  Cardinals are lovely, but not necessarily on your shirt (St. Louis baseball fans exempted from this, particularly during sporting events).  And all that glitters is not gold, and is not guaranteed to make you look like a million bucks.  Try things on first!  That should eliminate 90% of  most purchasing mistakes.

I could go on; I will, eventually.  But for now I say, caveat emptor!  And, happy mindful shopping!

Dear Secessionists:

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BARACK OBAMA HAS BEEN RE-ELECTED!  FIRE WILL RAIN FROM THE SKY!  TWO-HEADED CHICKENS WILL RUN IN THE STREETS!  ROVING PACKS OF FRENCH COMMUNISTS WILL ROAM OUR MALLS, CLOVE CIGARETTES CLENCHED IN THEIR TEETH!  AND THEY WILL SMOKE INDOORS, DESPITE THE NO-SMOKING SIGNS.

Heaven forfend.

Some of you, it seems, have worked yourself into a fine lather about the re-election of President Obama.  Now, I know what it feels like to have the guy you wanted booted out of office, not get booted out of office.  I know what it feels like to think, what the hell is the matter with the electorate?  Why don’t people see this guy has failed policies?  How could they pull that lever for a second term?

Yeah, I’m talking about Bush.  And while I did vote for Obama in this most recent election, frankly, I would have voted for Jill Stein if I thought a third party stood a ghost of a chance.  For those of you who want to froth about how I should have voted that way to show support for third parties so they can gain a foothold in the electoral machine, I have one word for you: Nader.  The entire system needs an overhaul, starting with a reversal of the Citizens United ruling.  But that’s a different blog for a different day.

Lately, there’s been some sort of crazy talk in the paper and the television machine and on the interwebs about secession, and about citizens petitioning the White House for the right for their states to secede.  Look, I’m all for the rights of protest, and I understand dissatisfaction with how your government manages money and time and people.  But secession, folks?  Shame on you.

What sort of spoiled, whiny, entitled, profoundly paranoid, closed mind generates such a response?  Instead of saying, “Hey, look at that.  Maybe I should measure the nation’s emotional climate and see what I don’t get,” these people say, “I’m taking my bat and my ball and I’m going home.”  Ooh, careful!  You might learn something.  That’s right.  I’m calling you paranoid.  I’m calling you entitled.  I’m calling you totally fucking whiny.  I’m also saying you need to get a better grip on things like “communism” and “fascism” and “entitlement“.  And to the people who do the whole “Obama is Hitler” thing: fuck you.  Get back to me once you’ve read a history book.

So first I’d like to know: is this what you think is in the future for Obama, Part 2?

Not gonna happen.

Seriously, people.  Worrying about whether or not people can get food on the table or can get affordable health care aren’t questions of the government trying to steal your money but rather, questions of basic human decency and legitimate public health concern.  I’d much rather feed people and maintain a decent standard of health then grapple with food riots or a cholera epidemic.  Think about how cranky you got the last time someone messed up your order at your local burger joint, and you had to wait while everyone else ate their dinners around you.  Now imagine you never get that food.  Grow the fuck up.  Shame on you.

Supporting a diversity of religion doesn’t directly correlate with hating Christianity, and freedom of religion also means freedom from religion.  Your bibles are safe, Christian population, and you’re welcome to use whatever words you want to use when wishing glad tidings this holiday season.  Do you get your knickers in a twist when the greeter at the big box discount shopeteria says “Happy holidays” to you instead of “Merry Christmas”?  Really?  Grow the fuck up.  Shame on you.

Not every immigrant is dirty, uneducated, and dying to have anchor babies in your back yard, despite what the odious, hateful, skeletal, shrieking head of Ann Coulter may say.  And not every brown person is an immigrant, despite Arizona’s stop-and-identify laws.  And before you start pointing out to me that it isn’t targeting specific races, let me ask you: how many people of Irish or Belgian descent do you think they ID’d?  Now, how many Mexicans and Native Americans do you think have been asked?  If you can’t accept that the US is getting browner around you all the time, then please, do us both a favor and grow the fuck up.  Shame on you.

And for the people who think this secession thing has legitimate legs, take a look at this:

This is a screen shot from the White House petition page.  In order to sign a petition you need to have an account so you can digitally sign, and all it requires is a name and email.  That’s it.  You don’t even need to provide a street address.  Do you honestly believe that all of those signatures are real?  I’ll wait while you think it over.

***

I’d be willing to bet money that the Koch brothers have installed an office full of wonks whose sole purpose is to generate fake signatures for these petitions.  Not because anything will come of it in the end, but because it will create a (falsely, I would argue) legitimized legal diversion that by law must be addressed.  Which is just like how them fancy high-falutin’ corporate lawyers file motion after motion that requires multiple court appearances, making it virtually impossible for an individual to win against a corporation.  It takes time away from the real business of running the country.

Bonus! If the Koch brothers were to win, in this scenario, then they could form their own country and call it Kochistan.  Kochistan.  Say it three times fast and get back to me.

Listen, the minute a federal officer shows up at your front door with an acetylene torch, demanding your bible, I will apologize, take back everything I say, and sign as many secession petitions as I can fake-generate before my kitten gets a punch.  But until then, people, please.  Relax.  Read a book, or go for a walk, or something.  Take some Zumba classes.  Work to understand the system, understand the demographic makeup of the country and what the most effective ways are to generate real, legitimate change, if that’s what you want.  And for God’s sake, please, get over yourselves.

Modern Etiquette: No Problem (Restaurant Edition)

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I’m going to tell you a little story.  One day, not all that long ago, a girlfriend and I went out for lunch at a local eat-and-drinkery.  I don’t want to name names; I’ll call it…the Shmown Shmavern.  Jo (name changed to protect…nobody, really, I just feel like being all mysterioso) and I met when we started working together at a restaurant; she and I are both long-standing veterans of the food service wars.  We know our way around a table that needs some waiting, or two.  I’ve done it all–bartending, waiting, management, bussing.  Chances are good that between the both of us, we’ve seen nearly everything there is to see in the restaurant biz, and in this particular instance I swear on all that is holy that I am NOT exaggerating.

We sat down at a lovely window seat at the Shmavern and…well, OK, there was a little bit of awkwardness, because our first waitress (who passed us off ASAP) is the current girlfriend of my friend’s ex-boyfriend.  Even though Jo is very happily married and has some adorable kiddos and hasn’t been involved with this ex for years, Waitress One decided the best way to handle Jo’s presence was to embrace her insecurities, call in a pinch-hitter and avoid our table at all costs.

Yay, professionalism.  Though I suppose it’s better than Waitress One running the risk of not being able to control herself.

When the second waitress came over, she dropped off our drinks and took our food orders.  The menu at the Shmavern isn’t terribly complicated, and we are entirely capable of delivering a food order with little-to-no hassle.  The conversation went something like this:

Erm…

Ahhhh…

No problem?  Really?

Herein lies my issue: we weren’t creating a problem.

In a restaurant, there are a million ways for customers to cause problems (or not), both big and small.  Here are some examples:

“Excuse me, this table is noisy and we have some fairly important business to discuss.  Can we sit over at that other table that’s tucked into a corner, instead?”

No problem.  Ding ding ding!  Proper use!  The customer had a problem, and the server addressed said problem in kind, resolved it and brushed it off as though it was trivial, because after all it’s a job structured around customer service.  Everyone’s happy.

“Hey, I was wondering…I’m allergic to shrimp, would I be able to get this salad with grilled chicken?”

No problem.  Once again, the server displays an enviable mastery of the English language.  On the grand scheme of things this is a minor problem, really, but nevertheless it requires a little extra legwork on the behalf of the server and can be legitimately considered a “problem”.  Especially since not managing it correctly could lead to a customer going into anaphylactic shock.  Which, I’m sure you will all agree, is a problem.

There is the more tricky, compound request between diner and waitperson:

“Hi.  Can I get the mandarin chicken salad?”

“You bet.”

“Oh, but…would I be able to get the dressing on the side?”

No problem.  See how that works?  Had the server replied “No problem” to the first question, then one would have to ask, what could have been the problem, anyway?  Were they recently out of chicken?  Was the dressing not made yet?  Did the chef have an innate fear of mandarin slices and wouldn’t make it, but thankfully today there was a mandarin specialist in the back room to help him through the tough part?  Instead, she stayed focused on each question as they presented themselves.  May I have this?  Yes.  Can you deviate from the norm at my request?  No problem.

“Miss, you don’t really mind if my children run around unsupervised and climb up the backs of your booths, do you?  Mommy needs some downtime with a pomegranate martini.”

Actually…that’s kind of a problem.

“Hi….ummmm…I hate to bother you, and I’m not sure how to say this because it’s so weird, but I think someone is having sex in the ladies’ room.”*

o.0

PROBLEM!  Big, huge, not-gonna-end-well-for-anyone, someone-needs-to-work-on-their-decision-making-skills type of problem.

*Note: That really happened.

“Hi, I’d like to order my food, straight off the menu, with no special requests.  I know exactly what I would like, how I would like it, and I’m ready to answer any question you might have, decisively and cheerfully, in anticipation of a pleasant dining experience.”

No problem.  BZZZT!  Wrong!  Thank you for playing.  Please try again.

Oh, I’m sorry.  Was I interrupting something?  I didn’t mean to intrude on your busy texting and flirting-with-the-co-workers schedule, but as I have walked into a restaurant for lunch and it is customary that a representative employed by said restaurant should take my order and bring me food in exchange for money and a service tip, I’d really like to get this transaction underway.  *sigh*  There was nothing special to accommodate when we spoke with our waitress.  There were no unusual requests, no climbing children, no allergies, no restroom sexytime.  We stated, in a straightforward manner, what we wanted.  (See the difference between the request and the statement?)  There was just…the expectation that she would do her job as defined by management, in a satisfactory manner.

I can already hear some of you saying, “Oh, come on.  That’s just a figure of speech, and she was just being nice.”  I say to you, WRONG!  Here is why: because words?  Have meanings.  ”No problem” indicates that by our presence, we’ve created an issue that the server needs to resolve.  Nice way to beat a path to your clientele’s heart. The smartasses in the room will in all likelihood point out that I did have a problem; I was hungry and wanted lunch.  You say “problem”.  Restaurants call that “business”.

In this sort of instance, the traditional response is quite usually the best one.  In response to the table thanking you for taking their (very easy, straightforward, uncomplicated) order, you the waitstaff should say…are you ready for this?…

You’re welcome.”

See?  Not that difficult.  Same amount of syllables as “No problem” so long as you preserve the contraction.  And it passes no judgment on the efficacy or moral weight of the table-waiting transaction.  I could go on about how I think this is symptomatic of the rise of the entitlement culture (which I do) or about how management needs to be more fastidious in their coaching (breaking bad habits and all; management, you need to get in there) but here’s the thing: that’s all lumped under the umbrella of “what I would fix if I were queen of the universe”.  And as much as anyone, I get that working in a restaurant is a transitional job for a lot of people.  I get that you’re tired of waiting on people, you’re tired, you’re hung over, you have a paper to write, your feet hurt, you’re fighting with your boyfriend, you’re worried because your kid is sick, you’re biding your time until you graduate from college, your last table was bitchy through no fault of your own (customers who do this, you know who you are and shame on you), your rent is due, there’s a great party going on that you’re missing, or you’d simply rather be laying under a palm tree on a white sand beach.  I get it.  And it’s hard, when one of these or a million other things are crowding inside your head and pulling your attention away from the task at hand.  But people, please.  Manners matter.  Think about what you’re saying to someone.  Think about how you would like to be treated, out to lunch with a girlfriend on a Sunday afternoon.  Would you like to feel like you’ve participated successfully in a business transaction that’s been positive for everyone involved?  Or would you like to feel that you’re, at best, not being viewed as a problem?

Sunrise at Nags Head, NC

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We just returned from a trip to Nags Head.  I’ve never been to the Outer Banks before and, as I have a bit of an obsession with border spaces it makes perfect sense that barrier islands are on my list of places to visit.  (I like to go to places like “the southernmost spot in” or “the furthest expansion of”.  I am also dying to visit the Four Corners monument and would also love to make it out to Key West.  For a variety of reasons.  Some of them academic.  :)  And I digress.)

As this was a vacation with family, George and I spent more time hanging out in the pursuit of quality time than we usually do and less time crawling around the night scene looking for foodie enclaves and loud music.  Everything in balance, people.  (Though here is my one foodie plug–if you’re in Nags Head and in the mood for Mexican, drive the ten miles to Bad Bean Baja Grill in Kill Devil Hills.  The salsa fresca is super-fresca!  The roasted habañero and tomato salsa is ain’t-messin’-around hot!  The nachos have pickled onions on them!  And the mole on the chicken mole burrito is great.  Nice and deep and smoky.  Everyone else at the table enjoyed their meals, too.  So, go.)

Anyway.

It was a little cold and dreary for the first two days that we got there, though the clouds seemed to break a little bit on the second night.  We noticed a clear patch of night sky, so George and I walked out to the beach to see what we could see, and got to feast our eyes on shooting stars zipping all over the sky.  I know they’re more prevalent than we realize.  It’s still a little startling when you go somewhere with way less light pollution than you’re used to.  The night was so clear–for a few minutes, anyway–that you could sort of see the stars behind the stars behind the stars and realize the three-dimensionality of the universe, which can be a heady concept to grapple with on a family vacation.  I wanted my most complicated question to be, “What’s for dinner?”  Instead I was faced with, “How infinitely small am I in this crazy vast universe I’m hurtling through?”  Yeesh.  I’d like another beer, please.

So.

Buoyed by the fact that there were clear patches of sky, I set the alarm for 6:15 so I could get up, shake the cobwebs out of my eyes, manage a cup of coffee and make my way to the beach before sunrise so I could take some pictures.  When I first looked out the window I saw cloud cover and had a few moments of “waaah” before thinking that the clouds had the potential to make things interesting.  And it was such a short walk to the beach; if it ended up being a glorious morning I would have kicked myself for missing out.  One cup of coffee later, George and I were on the beach anticipating the morning.

George, preparing for sunshine.

See?  Kind of grey, but what the hell.  Anyway.  We stood around and watched, and waited.  Wasn’t nobody there but us chickens.

Hello…hello…hello… Echo…echo…echo…

And then we started to get some little peeks of color through the clouds.

Patience, patience.

Sure, the promising gold and pink flecks of light on the water made a girl happy.  But something was missing, what was it?  Hmmm…

Thankfully, Central Casting apparently anticipated my needs and, as the sky turned more and more pink, provided me with Surf Fishing Dude and accompanying Birds.

One surf fishing dude stands alone.

And I know, I know, I promised you Central Casting Surf Fishing Dude with Birds, so here you go.

And I deliver you Surf Fishing Dude with Birds.

Oh, you like the birds?  Okay.

Check out the birds as the sky catches fire.

Here they are again.

On the hunt for some breakfast.

And don’t forget these little fellas in the surf.

Lest we forget.

OK, I’m going to drop the narrative now and just let the pictures tell the story.  I can’t do the morning justice, except by saying that we’re all very lucky we survived the sky exploding as it did.

And to think I almost decided against going.  So what to we do?  We look for the lessons.  If I had gone with my initial instinct and stayed home because of the clouds, I would have missed a spectacular morning.  If I hadn’t set the alarm (who wants to get up at 6:15 on vacation?) and taken the initiative, I would have missed a spectacular morning.  I like to walk around with my camera waiting for things to show up in front of me, and that has its benefits, for sure.  But rising to meet this opportunity paid off so, so spectacularly.  It’s only fitting that the beach (liminal) and sunrise (also liminal) are a potent combination for moments of self-reflection.  Is it corny that I think this is a metaphor for life?  Too bad if you feel that way.  I kind of dig it.

Oh, and lesson two: photographers, always…ALWAYS…have a spare battery charged and ready to go.  :)

All photographs are property of me, Terri Peterson, and may not be used without my permission.