(original post-date: February 24, 2010)
A NOTE BEFORE READING: If you find certain four-letter words (specifically, the ones that begin with “f” and “s”) offensive, then take a break from my blog and come back next week. Otherwise…
A few years ago in January, I woke up on a Sunday morning with fun plans for the day. But in less than a minute, I realized the hours ahead would not be quite as entertaining as I had anticipated. I couldn’t move. Or rather, I couldn’t get out of bed without using my arms to mobilize my right leg and hip. Something was very wrong, and the pain was unfamiliar.
Once I had made it to my feet, I inched my way into the kitchen and prepared some coffee. And once my cup was prepped, I did what I always do when I don’t feel well. I called my mom.
I realize that might sound childish coming from a woman my age, but the fact is, I have always been relatively adult, and so I deprived my mother of ministering to a certain amount of child-like behavior back when my height would have made it appropriate. I think she likes it when I call her with complaints of a stomach ache or whatever. And in this instance, although I couldn’t describe my ailment precisely, I had a strong need to whine to her and hear her voice.
I should mention, before I revisit the conversation itself, that my mother rarely cusses, and she has never, to my knowledge, dropped the “f-bomb.” She’s heard it, of course. From me. From my sister. Even from our late Dad (who felt particularly comfortable using the word once my sister and I had set a precedent). So I don’t mean to imply that Mom lives in a bubble. In fact, she is the very person who shared with me this little piece of etymology: did you know that the “f-bomb” is actually an acronym used by law enforcement in the UK? It represents for unlawful carnal knowledge.
Yup.
So that’s my mom. A font of information and a woman who stands by her scruples.
I was pacing in my living room when I called her that January morning. After the difficulty getting out of bed, I knew that sitting down would probably be an unwise idea. Particularly as it would need to be followed, at some point, by standing up.
“Mom,” I said, genuine concern in my voice. “Something is wrong. I don’t know what it is.”
She asked some logical follow-up questions, and as I paced, I frequently felt extremely sharp pains.
“Fuck!” I blurted out, after one especially sharp jolt.
“Shit!” after another.
I continued to try to describe what I was feeling --
“Fuck! Shit!”
-- and how I didn’t recall doing anything particular to cause it.
“Fuck!” (the pain jolts kept coming…)
I shared that I’d been exercising quite consistently in the past month --
“SHIT!”
-- so having some sort of sudden physical problem like this --
“FUCK! SHIT!”
-- just didn’t make sense.
There was a pause in my tirade, and my mother waited a moment. Then, she asked the irresistible question.
“Are you sure it’s not Turrets?”
POSTSCRIPT: As you might have gathered from the title of this piece, my ailment turned out to be sciatica. Avoid it if you can! (It’ll fuck with you.)
Monday, February 28, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Thirty-Four
A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).
V
When the telephone rings late that afternoon, Evelyn and Davy are both napping in the family room. Not wanting The Krosk to answer it, Evelyn reaches for the handset immediately, after the first ring awakens her.
“Hello?” she says quietly.
“I’m really worried about Sara,” is Marilyn’s salutation.
“Hi Marilyn. What’s going on?”
“She was out four times this past week. She bolts out of here after dinner and doesn’t come home until midnight.”
“On school nights?” Evelyn asks.
“Well, two of them were school nights.”
“Is she getting her homework done?”
“She says she is.”
“Then she probably is,” comments Evelyn. “How have her grades been so far this year?”
“Pretty good. B’s, mostly.”
Evelyn, who always sensed that Sara was quite smart, believes Sara could be getting A’s mostly, but she doesn’t feel it is her business to make that comment. She also wonders if “B’s mostly” means that the rest are C’s. Otherwise, wouldn’t Marilyn have said “A’s and B’s”?
“Do you know what she’s doing when she’s out?” Evelyn asks. “Who she’s out with?”
“Hanging out at Brenda’s. There’s a small group of them. They play music.”
“That sounds tame,” Evelyn responds, envisioning a record player, spinning 45s.
“Yeah, well, Brenda has a lot of equipment, I guess, and Sara apparently is pretty good on keyboards.”
“Oh,” Evelyn says, amused and confused by her daughter’s absurdly displaced disapproval, “so they’re making music.”
“I’m just worried, though,” Marilyn states. “You know, they never did solve those murder cases.”
Evelyn shakes her head. If I can ever predict what Marilyn will say next, she thinks, please lock me up and throw away the key!
“They were teenage girls, you know; the ones who were murdered,” Marilyn continues. “At least three of them. All in Westchester.”
“I remember. Did they have instruments?”
“Mom!!!”
“I’m sorry. A little black humor.”
“That isn’t funny! I am very upset! My daughter is out four nights a week!” Marilyn’s tone is now bordering on hysteria. Evelyn can sense that her daughter’s eyes are tearing up, that if the conversation is not reversed somehow, Marilyn will begin to cry, and once she begins crying, she will move on to other topics that upset her—Barry; the fact that they don’t own a house; the fact that she doesn’t think she can find a job.
“Marilyn,” Evelyn says, as calmly as possible. “Why don’t you ask Sara if you can join her some night? Tell her you’d like to hear the girls play.”
“I am sure she doesn’t want me there.”
“Could they practice at your house one night a week?” Evelyn suggests.
“Our house is hardly big enough for a band studio. Besides, I doubt if they would want to lug everything over here.
“And,” Marilyn adds, “I don’t think Barry would appreciate the disruption.”
Evelyn is always amazed at the number of reasons Marilyn can come up with to not do something.
“I just get worried, you know,” Marilyn says then, her voice faltering. “I think about those murders, and I just get worried.”
“Marilyn, sweetheart, I appreciate a mother’s worry,” Evelyn says. “I think, though, that you’re making unrealistic connections, and you are only hurting yourself by doing so. It sounds to me like Sara is doing fine. She’s expending her sixteen-year-old energy in a productive, creative way with productive, creative friends. She’s not a mallrat. She’s not drinking or doing drugs. She’s just being a teenager.”
Evelyn waits for Marilyn’s response, and when it is not forthcoming, she realizes that she’s being asked—silently, passively—to keep talking.
But I don’t want to keep talking! she thinks, amazed by her daughter’s ability to steal her energy without even being in the room.
“Marilyn,” Evelyn says finally, “I don’t know what else to tell you. All I can say is, I think it’s okay.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Well. I should probably go. I should probably get dinner started.”
“Is Sara there now?”
“She’s upstairs doing her homework.”
Evelyn shakes her head and rolls her eyes. What a delinquent! she thinks. Upstairs doing her homework!
“Anyway,” Marilyn says. “Thanks for listening.”
“Anytime, dear. Have a good night.”
“You, too.”
Evelyn returns the handset to its cradle and looks over at her sleeping husband. “Next time, Davy, I want you to talk to her!”
Davy doesn’t stir.
* * *
to be continued on March 5th .
In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.
V
When the telephone rings late that afternoon, Evelyn and Davy are both napping in the family room. Not wanting The Krosk to answer it, Evelyn reaches for the handset immediately, after the first ring awakens her.
“Hello?” she says quietly.
“I’m really worried about Sara,” is Marilyn’s salutation.
“Hi Marilyn. What’s going on?”
“She was out four times this past week. She bolts out of here after dinner and doesn’t come home until midnight.”
“On school nights?” Evelyn asks.
“Well, two of them were school nights.”
“Is she getting her homework done?”
“She says she is.”
“Then she probably is,” comments Evelyn. “How have her grades been so far this year?”
“Pretty good. B’s, mostly.”
Evelyn, who always sensed that Sara was quite smart, believes Sara could be getting A’s mostly, but she doesn’t feel it is her business to make that comment. She also wonders if “B’s mostly” means that the rest are C’s. Otherwise, wouldn’t Marilyn have said “A’s and B’s”?
“Do you know what she’s doing when she’s out?” Evelyn asks. “Who she’s out with?”
“Hanging out at Brenda’s. There’s a small group of them. They play music.”
“That sounds tame,” Evelyn responds, envisioning a record player, spinning 45s.
“Yeah, well, Brenda has a lot of equipment, I guess, and Sara apparently is pretty good on keyboards.”
“Oh,” Evelyn says, amused and confused by her daughter’s absurdly displaced disapproval, “so they’re making music.”
“I’m just worried, though,” Marilyn states. “You know, they never did solve those murder cases.”
Evelyn shakes her head. If I can ever predict what Marilyn will say next, she thinks, please lock me up and throw away the key!
“They were teenage girls, you know; the ones who were murdered,” Marilyn continues. “At least three of them. All in Westchester.”
“I remember. Did they have instruments?”
“Mom!!!”
“I’m sorry. A little black humor.”
“That isn’t funny! I am very upset! My daughter is out four nights a week!” Marilyn’s tone is now bordering on hysteria. Evelyn can sense that her daughter’s eyes are tearing up, that if the conversation is not reversed somehow, Marilyn will begin to cry, and once she begins crying, she will move on to other topics that upset her—Barry; the fact that they don’t own a house; the fact that she doesn’t think she can find a job.
“Marilyn,” Evelyn says, as calmly as possible. “Why don’t you ask Sara if you can join her some night? Tell her you’d like to hear the girls play.”
“I am sure she doesn’t want me there.”
“Could they practice at your house one night a week?” Evelyn suggests.
“Our house is hardly big enough for a band studio. Besides, I doubt if they would want to lug everything over here.
“And,” Marilyn adds, “I don’t think Barry would appreciate the disruption.”
Evelyn is always amazed at the number of reasons Marilyn can come up with to not do something.
“I just get worried, you know,” Marilyn says then, her voice faltering. “I think about those murders, and I just get worried.”
“Marilyn, sweetheart, I appreciate a mother’s worry,” Evelyn says. “I think, though, that you’re making unrealistic connections, and you are only hurting yourself by doing so. It sounds to me like Sara is doing fine. She’s expending her sixteen-year-old energy in a productive, creative way with productive, creative friends. She’s not a mallrat. She’s not drinking or doing drugs. She’s just being a teenager.”
Evelyn waits for Marilyn’s response, and when it is not forthcoming, she realizes that she’s being asked—silently, passively—to keep talking.
But I don’t want to keep talking! she thinks, amazed by her daughter’s ability to steal her energy without even being in the room.
“Marilyn,” Evelyn says finally, “I don’t know what else to tell you. All I can say is, I think it’s okay.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Well. I should probably go. I should probably get dinner started.”
“Is Sara there now?”
“She’s upstairs doing her homework.”
Evelyn shakes her head and rolls her eyes. What a delinquent! she thinks. Upstairs doing her homework!
“Anyway,” Marilyn says. “Thanks for listening.”
“Anytime, dear. Have a good night.”
“You, too.”
Evelyn returns the handset to its cradle and looks over at her sleeping husband. “Next time, Davy, I want you to talk to her!”
Davy doesn’t stir.
* * *
to be continued on March 5th .
In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
All We Are Saying...
This past Saturday, I turned on the TV for a rerun of Saturday Night Live. The broadcast first aired before the holidays, and Paul McCartney was the musical guest.
That was my interest in the rerun… Paul McCartney.
And so I busied myself while the show was on, waiting for his appearances.
As for those moments in time, he was awesome. No, he doesn’t quite have the voice he once had, but it’s in damn fine shape. And he will always remain not only the prettiest Beatle, but quite possibly the prettiest rock star to emerge from that era.
Oh, Paul.
If only I had known.
If only I had known that I was not too young for you…
During the SNL broadcast, he did four sets, the third of which began with A Day in the Life. It was beautifully performed. And, after some instrumental riffing, Paul parlayed that haunting ballad from the Sgt. Pepper album into an audience participation event of Give Peace a Chance.
Initially, Paul and his band sang the lyrics, but ultimately, the audience was given the responsibility of owning the chant.
Give peace a chance.
There was something very touching and special about the experience.
And so goddamn innocent.
It stopped me in my tracks, and it made me think about the basic good in Lennon’s plea.
Give peace a chance.
With everything that is happening in the Middle East – and with our own country’s uprisings in the Midwest – I’m wondering these days about the chance of peace.
Which leads to my dictionary…
This time, I’m grabbing the off-line tome.
…No surprises, actually. Per Webster’s, the definition of peace (n.) is “the condition that exists when nations or other groups are not fighting.”
I realize it may seem odd that I felt compelled to find and share a definition, but when I came away from that SNL rerun – when I had witnessed an audience sharing the lyrics of Give Peace a Chance – I don’t know, I just thought that maybe peace could be given a chance.
I thought that maybe I was missing something…
Maybe I needed to revisit the definition of peace…
I mean, if these audience members could sing with such conviction...
But, no… I do understand the definition of peace.
I understood it all along.
And so I return to what I said a moment ago.
It’s innocent.
According to Webster’s, innocent (n.) means “free from guilt.”
It’s understandable that one who is free from guilt might believe that peace is possible.
But… the world is run (mostly) by those who are not innocent.
And peace will never serve those people.
I wish it were different.
I truly do.
… I also wish that I were married to Paul McCartney.
Cause if I were? No lie, I’d buy peace for all of us and then we’d have a big party!
That was my interest in the rerun… Paul McCartney.
And so I busied myself while the show was on, waiting for his appearances.
As for those moments in time, he was awesome. No, he doesn’t quite have the voice he once had, but it’s in damn fine shape. And he will always remain not only the prettiest Beatle, but quite possibly the prettiest rock star to emerge from that era.
Oh, Paul.
If only I had known.
If only I had known that I was not too young for you…
During the SNL broadcast, he did four sets, the third of which began with A Day in the Life. It was beautifully performed. And, after some instrumental riffing, Paul parlayed that haunting ballad from the Sgt. Pepper album into an audience participation event of Give Peace a Chance.
Initially, Paul and his band sang the lyrics, but ultimately, the audience was given the responsibility of owning the chant.
Give peace a chance.
There was something very touching and special about the experience.
And so goddamn innocent.
It stopped me in my tracks, and it made me think about the basic good in Lennon’s plea.
Give peace a chance.
With everything that is happening in the Middle East – and with our own country’s uprisings in the Midwest – I’m wondering these days about the chance of peace.
Which leads to my dictionary…
This time, I’m grabbing the off-line tome.
…No surprises, actually. Per Webster’s, the definition of peace (n.) is “the condition that exists when nations or other groups are not fighting.”
I realize it may seem odd that I felt compelled to find and share a definition, but when I came away from that SNL rerun – when I had witnessed an audience sharing the lyrics of Give Peace a Chance – I don’t know, I just thought that maybe peace could be given a chance.
I thought that maybe I was missing something…
Maybe I needed to revisit the definition of peace…
I mean, if these audience members could sing with such conviction...
But, no… I do understand the definition of peace.
I understood it all along.
And so I return to what I said a moment ago.
It’s innocent.
According to Webster’s, innocent (n.) means “free from guilt.”
It’s understandable that one who is free from guilt might believe that peace is possible.
But… the world is run (mostly) by those who are not innocent.
And peace will never serve those people.
I wish it were different.
I truly do.
… I also wish that I were married to Paul McCartney.
Cause if I were? No lie, I’d buy peace for all of us and then we’d have a big party!
Monday, February 21, 2011
Monday Reruns: The Frog In His Salad
(original post-date: February 17, 2010)
Life puts us where we’re supposed to be, and when I decided – after four years in the Ivy League – to get a job as a waitress, life put me at a burger-slinging place in the Fashion District of Manhattan.
The burger-slinging place, in turn, handed me a “trainer:” Don.
One of the funniest, warmest individuals I had met and will meet, Don remains a friend today. (He also still happens to wait on tables in New York.)
We worked together at that burger-slinging place for probably less than a year. Then, we moved on. To different restaurants.
About two years (and more than a few restaurants) later, I was working at a glorified coffee shop on the Upper East Side. It was classic. Most of my fellow waitresses were older women who brought to mind the characters from the movie, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore. These waitresses didn’t wear hairnets, but they might have. They had painted-on eyebrows and tri-state accents. They were the real deal.
As were our costumes: our black polyester v-neck jumpers were knee-length. We wore them over cotton shirts in various pastel hues. White neckties completed the ensemble.
Besides age, the primary difference between the other waitri and me was our choice in leg- and footwear. My older colleagues wore support hose and equally supportive shoes. I flaunted bare legs (which were always tanned, thanks to my weekend excursions to Jones Beach), and the black Minnie Mouse shoes that I found at the Eastern import shop were, if I recall, a Chinese size 45.
I was definitely the babe in the mix, but in that place, my status bore no benefits.
It was grueling work, delivering the goods to the tables. And it was particularly grueling on weekends, when customers would order fresh-squeezed orange juice. Sure, it was cool that they could order it, but the squeezing process took a great deal of time, and the waitresses most often had to do that work. If one table ordered four large OJs, I’d be on a ten-minute delay from that point forward. I knew I could kiss all tips good-bye.
There was also the issue of the owner, a man named Irving. He was undoubtedly very wealthy, and he spent barely a moment in his restaurant, but when he did, oh my God, those older waitri would get quite nervous. And they would parlay that nervousness into snippy remarks.
“Irving’s here checking out his precious orange juice machine,” Ingrid said one day, her painted eyebrows rising above the top frame of her glasses as she did the math on a guest check, a half-cigarette hanging out of her mouth.
Ingrid was the most Diane Ladd of the older waitress group, and on the day of Irving’s visit, she had been assigned a somewhat extended shift so as to catch some of the post-lunch spillover. The rest of the gals had left. Only she and I were “on the floor.”
Those who have worked in restaurants and have done the shifts-in-between know that it can get pretty dicey. You’ve got an entire restaurant that will probably remain fairly empty. On the other hand, it could fill up, and it could do so all at once. You don’t want that to happen.
It was relatively quiet when Don walked in. My dear friend. The witty man who had “trained” me as a waitress…
He took one of the deuces close to the soda fountain and we chatted for a bit. Then, he ordered his iced tea and chef’s salad and I proceeded to fill his order. I gave the check with my chef’s salad scribblings to Bill, who was accessible through the half window between the restaurant and the kitchen area. Then, I made the iced tea, delivered it to Don, and approached a couple who had just taken a table in the other section of the restaurant.
At the time, Ingrid was wrapping up her remaining tables. Anyone who entered the restaurant from this point on would be my responsibility. And – as fate would have it – more people showed up. Of course they did! Of course they showed up on the one afternoon when I actually had a friend there. When I would have gladly spent that time shooting the breeze with Don.
Within five minutes, I was running around like a crazy woman. Taking orders. Delivering beverages. Delivering Don’s chef’s salad. Delivering more beverages. More food orders.
Nonstop.
Moving as quickly as possible in my Minnie Mouse shoes, I was surprised by Don’s insistent “come here” finger gesture. He kept trying to wave me over to his table, and I kept delaying my response to him as I attended to all the other customers. Don’s persistence surprised and confused me. Surely he saw (and could relate to) what I was going through! I had a restaurant full of customers, and I was the only waitress!
Finally, there was a moment to breathe. So I approached Don and his chef’s salad.
He let me exhale, and then he looked up at me with a mock scolding expression on his face.
“Miss!” he said, in a tone that reminded me of Charles Nelson Reilly. He pointed into the glass bowl I had delivered five or ten minutes ago. “There’s a frog in my salad.”
When I saw the frog – the plastic, one-inch-by-two-inch frog that Don had brought with him and placed in his salad – I doubled over laughing. And, because I was relatively caught up in that moment, I needed to share the comic relief.
“Oh my!” I said, scooping up the bowl. “This is unacceptable!”
As I headed back to the window where Bill, the afternoon cook, was keeping up as best he could, I passed Ingrid. She saw the frog in passing (and from a slight distance), and she blurted out (rather loudly), “Oh my God!”
I proceeded to the window, where I placed the bowl on the pass-through shelf.
“Bill,” I said, in a tone that was obviously facetious. “Look at what showed up in this man’s salad! You gotta pay better attention!”
Bill, who needed to double over laughing as desperately as I had, proceeded to do just that.
So it was all fun and games so far, but when I turned around, still holding the large glass bowl with the frog in it, I confronted something not so funny.
It was Irving. (Still there. Still monitoring his precious fresh orange juice squeezer.)
It was Irving, upset.
He had heard Ingrid’s outburst, and he was challenging her.
“Who said ‘Oh my God!’” he asked, in a low, but very firm, tone of voice. “Did you say “Oh my God!’?”
“I didn’t say ‘Oh my God!’.” Ingrid lied, speaking quietly.
En route to Don’s table, I had no choice but to pass closely to the Irving/Ingrid confrontation, so I quickly hid the frog-infested salad behind my polyester jumper.
Irving continued obsessively. “I heard someone say ‘Oh my God!’,” he repeated, using a stage whisper. “I heard it! And that’s not right. Our customers should not hear that! Our customers should not hear anyone saying “Oh my God!’”
“I didn’t say anything,” Ingrid lied again.
…I couldn’t take the futile battle anymore.
“But look at this man’s salad!” I squealed, moving the bowl from its hiding place and extending it in Irving’s direction.
“JESUS CHRIST!” Irving responded (loud enough for everyone to hear).
Life puts us where we’re supposed to be, and when I decided – after four years in the Ivy League – to get a job as a waitress, life put me at a burger-slinging place in the Fashion District of Manhattan.
The burger-slinging place, in turn, handed me a “trainer:” Don.
One of the funniest, warmest individuals I had met and will meet, Don remains a friend today. (He also still happens to wait on tables in New York.)
We worked together at that burger-slinging place for probably less than a year. Then, we moved on. To different restaurants.
About two years (and more than a few restaurants) later, I was working at a glorified coffee shop on the Upper East Side. It was classic. Most of my fellow waitresses were older women who brought to mind the characters from the movie, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore. These waitresses didn’t wear hairnets, but they might have. They had painted-on eyebrows and tri-state accents. They were the real deal.
As were our costumes: our black polyester v-neck jumpers were knee-length. We wore them over cotton shirts in various pastel hues. White neckties completed the ensemble.
Besides age, the primary difference between the other waitri and me was our choice in leg- and footwear. My older colleagues wore support hose and equally supportive shoes. I flaunted bare legs (which were always tanned, thanks to my weekend excursions to Jones Beach), and the black Minnie Mouse shoes that I found at the Eastern import shop were, if I recall, a Chinese size 45.
I was definitely the babe in the mix, but in that place, my status bore no benefits.
It was grueling work, delivering the goods to the tables. And it was particularly grueling on weekends, when customers would order fresh-squeezed orange juice. Sure, it was cool that they could order it, but the squeezing process took a great deal of time, and the waitresses most often had to do that work. If one table ordered four large OJs, I’d be on a ten-minute delay from that point forward. I knew I could kiss all tips good-bye.
There was also the issue of the owner, a man named Irving. He was undoubtedly very wealthy, and he spent barely a moment in his restaurant, but when he did, oh my God, those older waitri would get quite nervous. And they would parlay that nervousness into snippy remarks.
“Irving’s here checking out his precious orange juice machine,” Ingrid said one day, her painted eyebrows rising above the top frame of her glasses as she did the math on a guest check, a half-cigarette hanging out of her mouth.
Ingrid was the most Diane Ladd of the older waitress group, and on the day of Irving’s visit, she had been assigned a somewhat extended shift so as to catch some of the post-lunch spillover. The rest of the gals had left. Only she and I were “on the floor.”
Those who have worked in restaurants and have done the shifts-in-between know that it can get pretty dicey. You’ve got an entire restaurant that will probably remain fairly empty. On the other hand, it could fill up, and it could do so all at once. You don’t want that to happen.
It was relatively quiet when Don walked in. My dear friend. The witty man who had “trained” me as a waitress…
He took one of the deuces close to the soda fountain and we chatted for a bit. Then, he ordered his iced tea and chef’s salad and I proceeded to fill his order. I gave the check with my chef’s salad scribblings to Bill, who was accessible through the half window between the restaurant and the kitchen area. Then, I made the iced tea, delivered it to Don, and approached a couple who had just taken a table in the other section of the restaurant.
At the time, Ingrid was wrapping up her remaining tables. Anyone who entered the restaurant from this point on would be my responsibility. And – as fate would have it – more people showed up. Of course they did! Of course they showed up on the one afternoon when I actually had a friend there. When I would have gladly spent that time shooting the breeze with Don.
Within five minutes, I was running around like a crazy woman. Taking orders. Delivering beverages. Delivering Don’s chef’s salad. Delivering more beverages. More food orders.
Nonstop.
Moving as quickly as possible in my Minnie Mouse shoes, I was surprised by Don’s insistent “come here” finger gesture. He kept trying to wave me over to his table, and I kept delaying my response to him as I attended to all the other customers. Don’s persistence surprised and confused me. Surely he saw (and could relate to) what I was going through! I had a restaurant full of customers, and I was the only waitress!
Finally, there was a moment to breathe. So I approached Don and his chef’s salad.
He let me exhale, and then he looked up at me with a mock scolding expression on his face.
“Miss!” he said, in a tone that reminded me of Charles Nelson Reilly. He pointed into the glass bowl I had delivered five or ten minutes ago. “There’s a frog in my salad.”
When I saw the frog – the plastic, one-inch-by-two-inch frog that Don had brought with him and placed in his salad – I doubled over laughing. And, because I was relatively caught up in that moment, I needed to share the comic relief.
“Oh my!” I said, scooping up the bowl. “This is unacceptable!”
As I headed back to the window where Bill, the afternoon cook, was keeping up as best he could, I passed Ingrid. She saw the frog in passing (and from a slight distance), and she blurted out (rather loudly), “Oh my God!”
I proceeded to the window, where I placed the bowl on the pass-through shelf.
“Bill,” I said, in a tone that was obviously facetious. “Look at what showed up in this man’s salad! You gotta pay better attention!”
Bill, who needed to double over laughing as desperately as I had, proceeded to do just that.
So it was all fun and games so far, but when I turned around, still holding the large glass bowl with the frog in it, I confronted something not so funny.
It was Irving. (Still there. Still monitoring his precious fresh orange juice squeezer.)
It was Irving, upset.
He had heard Ingrid’s outburst, and he was challenging her.
“Who said ‘Oh my God!’” he asked, in a low, but very firm, tone of voice. “Did you say “Oh my God!’?”
“I didn’t say ‘Oh my God!’.” Ingrid lied, speaking quietly.
En route to Don’s table, I had no choice but to pass closely to the Irving/Ingrid confrontation, so I quickly hid the frog-infested salad behind my polyester jumper.
Irving continued obsessively. “I heard someone say ‘Oh my God!’,” he repeated, using a stage whisper. “I heard it! And that’s not right. Our customers should not hear that! Our customers should not hear anyone saying “Oh my God!’”
“I didn’t say anything,” Ingrid lied again.
…I couldn’t take the futile battle anymore.
“But look at this man’s salad!” I squealed, moving the bowl from its hiding place and extending it in Irving’s direction.
“JESUS CHRIST!” Irving responded (loud enough for everyone to hear).
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Thirty-Three
A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).
IV
“Wow, so you were the ‘real Mom’ type,” Ashley comments, having learned (because she asked) that Evelyn had never had a job or career, but rather had put all her energy into raising the kids, volunteering at their schools and in the community, and keeping the house in order.
“I don’t know about that title,” Evelyn offers. “Real Mom. I’m not sure if my kids would agree.”
“And how are your kids? Do you have grandchildren?”
“Five grandchildren from two of my children. Patrick and his wife have three—”
“Oh, God! Patrick!” Ashley blurts out. “Sorry to interrupt,” she adds quickly, “I think I met him. How old is he?”
“He turned forty-four this year.”
“Right,” Ashley says, entertaining the smile that comes with reminiscence. “I remember meeting him once. And I developed an instant crush.”
“Really?” asks Evelyn, simultaneously amused and intrigued.
“I’m sure it was some sort of transference. I mean, first I had a crush on Dr. Bennett, and of course, I wasn’t the only girl in that school who did…
“I’m sorry,” Ashley says then. “Is this inappropriate?”
“No!” Evelyn answers, touched by her guest’s ability to disclose personal information in such a considerate manner.
“Anyway,” Ashley says, shaking her head, “it was an interesting crush.”
“The one on my husband or the one on my son?”
“The one on Dr. Bennett,” Ashley answers, not knowing, at this point, that she could be referring to either one of them. “It was weird: I was completely in touch with the fact that I had a crush on him. And I was okay with that. But, the part I could never figure out was, did I want him to be my husband or did I want him to be my father?”
As Evelyn smiles at her guest, she feels a strange sense of subconscious progress, as if she and Ashley are sitting through a spontaneous therapy session, each playing dual roles. She also appreciates that Ashley has no need to fill every silence with chatter.
Their shared peace is interrupted by the opening of the sliding glass door, through which Davy and The Krosk are entering the kitchen, the calisthenics session apparently having come to an end. Although it is Mrs. Krosky’s intention to march Davy upstairs immediately, so that he might shower and change into whatever tee shirt he will be sporting for the rest of the day, the drawings on the counter distract him. And Evelyn and Ashley both watch, from their seats in the family room, as Davy studies the art to which he once signed his name.
“Oh, my,” they hear him say. “These are really something. These are—”
“Come along, Mr. Bennett,” The Krosk says.
“No,” he says quietly, waving her off in a nonthreatening manner. “No, I am here.”
“Mr. Bennett!” The Krosk says, more firmly. “You must take your shower now, Mr. Bennett!”
“It’s Dr. Bennett,” Ashley interjects quietly, rising from her chair and entering the kitchen. “It’s Doctor Bennett,” she repeats to Mrs. Krosky, not raising her voice, but clearly capable of matching and besting The Krosk’s stubborn ways. “And he drew these amazing pieces. So I think that if he wants to look at his work, he should have the right to do that.”
The Krosk knows better than to turn to Evelyn for support. Instead, she retreats to another part of the house, where she might find a bed to make or some rug that needs to be vacuumed.
And Evelyn stays put in the family room. From her chair, she can see the backs of two artists—her husband and the woman who once had a crush on him. And she can see, without having access to their faces, that they are currently celebrating an appreciation they share. They are celebrating their common appreciation for detail.
* * *
to be continued on February 26th .
In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.
IV
“Wow, so you were the ‘real Mom’ type,” Ashley comments, having learned (because she asked) that Evelyn had never had a job or career, but rather had put all her energy into raising the kids, volunteering at their schools and in the community, and keeping the house in order.
“I don’t know about that title,” Evelyn offers. “Real Mom. I’m not sure if my kids would agree.”
“And how are your kids? Do you have grandchildren?”
“Five grandchildren from two of my children. Patrick and his wife have three—”
“Oh, God! Patrick!” Ashley blurts out. “Sorry to interrupt,” she adds quickly, “I think I met him. How old is he?”
“He turned forty-four this year.”
“Right,” Ashley says, entertaining the smile that comes with reminiscence. “I remember meeting him once. And I developed an instant crush.”
“Really?” asks Evelyn, simultaneously amused and intrigued.
“I’m sure it was some sort of transference. I mean, first I had a crush on Dr. Bennett, and of course, I wasn’t the only girl in that school who did…
“I’m sorry,” Ashley says then. “Is this inappropriate?”
“No!” Evelyn answers, touched by her guest’s ability to disclose personal information in such a considerate manner.
“Anyway,” Ashley says, shaking her head, “it was an interesting crush.”
“The one on my husband or the one on my son?”
“The one on Dr. Bennett,” Ashley answers, not knowing, at this point, that she could be referring to either one of them. “It was weird: I was completely in touch with the fact that I had a crush on him. And I was okay with that. But, the part I could never figure out was, did I want him to be my husband or did I want him to be my father?”
As Evelyn smiles at her guest, she feels a strange sense of subconscious progress, as if she and Ashley are sitting through a spontaneous therapy session, each playing dual roles. She also appreciates that Ashley has no need to fill every silence with chatter.
Their shared peace is interrupted by the opening of the sliding glass door, through which Davy and The Krosk are entering the kitchen, the calisthenics session apparently having come to an end. Although it is Mrs. Krosky’s intention to march Davy upstairs immediately, so that he might shower and change into whatever tee shirt he will be sporting for the rest of the day, the drawings on the counter distract him. And Evelyn and Ashley both watch, from their seats in the family room, as Davy studies the art to which he once signed his name.
“Oh, my,” they hear him say. “These are really something. These are—”
“Come along, Mr. Bennett,” The Krosk says.
“No,” he says quietly, waving her off in a nonthreatening manner. “No, I am here.”
“Mr. Bennett!” The Krosk says, more firmly. “You must take your shower now, Mr. Bennett!”
“It’s Dr. Bennett,” Ashley interjects quietly, rising from her chair and entering the kitchen. “It’s Doctor Bennett,” she repeats to Mrs. Krosky, not raising her voice, but clearly capable of matching and besting The Krosk’s stubborn ways. “And he drew these amazing pieces. So I think that if he wants to look at his work, he should have the right to do that.”
The Krosk knows better than to turn to Evelyn for support. Instead, she retreats to another part of the house, where she might find a bed to make or some rug that needs to be vacuumed.
And Evelyn stays put in the family room. From her chair, she can see the backs of two artists—her husband and the woman who once had a crush on him. And she can see, without having access to their faces, that they are currently celebrating an appreciation they share. They are celebrating their common appreciation for detail.
* * *
to be continued on February 26th .
In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Bieber Fever (or maybe it's just another hot flash)
For me, the Grammy Awards are not as important as the Oscars.
Which is to say, I don’t set aside the day as a time for ritual. For the Oscars, there is always a gathering at my place, and the menu always circles around my famous and mysterious cold sesame noodles. While indulging in the culinary offerings, we watch the show with respect. We are quiet for much of the ceremony, and when we are not quiet, we are exchanging witty observations.
Combining reverence with acerbic commentary, the Oscars are an event here at Katie’s place.
The Grammys, though? Not an event. In fact, each year, as the day arrives and I anticipate watching them, I am hard-pressed to justify my interest. I have to come up with something to do while the show is on. I can’t simply sit there, taking in the broadcast. And yet, I am drawn to the annual ceremony.
So this past Sunday evening, just before the Grammys were scheduled to begin, I pulled out the card table and set it up in front of the television. And as the broadcast progressed, I used that table as my work station – going through all my current client files, culling outdated documents, and finding their destinations in the archive folders. The exercise was relatively mindless, and so it allowed me to stop when the entertainment on the screen called for stopping.
What’s cool about the Grammys is that, as an awards show, it is more about performance than it is about trophies and speeches. I don’t think it was always this way, but in the past several years, the awards telecast has become – more than anything – a phenomenally eclectic concert. And so, there were many moments when I stopped the busy work I was doing and simply took in what was emanating from my television…
Lady Gaga, a remarkable performance artist who clearly knows about marketing (and I’m not talking about the meat market, though a case could be made…); Mick Jagger, who – at WHAT AGE? – can command a stage without props or pyrotechnics; Arcade Fire, who seemingly came out of nowhere to win (deservedly) Album of the Year; Barbra Streisand, who ended her performance of Evergreen with a facial expression that revealed the fear she’d brought with her to the stage; and Justin Bieber…
Justin Bieber.
Oh my.
I realize this kid from Canada has received more than his share of press lately, and he sure as hell doesn’t need for me to chime in, but sorry, I can’t help but share a few words.
The dude is fucking awesome, okay?
I realize that modifier (i.e., the f-word, above) is too old for his boyish good looks, but please?! OMG, the way he performs, the tone of his voice, his dance moves, his command of the stage… Frankly, I’m rather blown away.
There’s also the hair, of course. (Could he be the next Breck girl?)
Ah, see… there… I’m dating myself.
Justin Bieber was undoubtedly born after the last Breck girl.
And it doesn’t matter.
Although the kid could have a career in shampoo commercials, he will not need to take that route. He is uber-talented. He is… remarkable.
And this fever ain’t no hot flash.
I’m just making an observation.
Which is to say, I don’t set aside the day as a time for ritual. For the Oscars, there is always a gathering at my place, and the menu always circles around my famous and mysterious cold sesame noodles. While indulging in the culinary offerings, we watch the show with respect. We are quiet for much of the ceremony, and when we are not quiet, we are exchanging witty observations.
Combining reverence with acerbic commentary, the Oscars are an event here at Katie’s place.
The Grammys, though? Not an event. In fact, each year, as the day arrives and I anticipate watching them, I am hard-pressed to justify my interest. I have to come up with something to do while the show is on. I can’t simply sit there, taking in the broadcast. And yet, I am drawn to the annual ceremony.
So this past Sunday evening, just before the Grammys were scheduled to begin, I pulled out the card table and set it up in front of the television. And as the broadcast progressed, I used that table as my work station – going through all my current client files, culling outdated documents, and finding their destinations in the archive folders. The exercise was relatively mindless, and so it allowed me to stop when the entertainment on the screen called for stopping.
What’s cool about the Grammys is that, as an awards show, it is more about performance than it is about trophies and speeches. I don’t think it was always this way, but in the past several years, the awards telecast has become – more than anything – a phenomenally eclectic concert. And so, there were many moments when I stopped the busy work I was doing and simply took in what was emanating from my television…
Lady Gaga, a remarkable performance artist who clearly knows about marketing (and I’m not talking about the meat market, though a case could be made…); Mick Jagger, who – at WHAT AGE? – can command a stage without props or pyrotechnics; Arcade Fire, who seemingly came out of nowhere to win (deservedly) Album of the Year; Barbra Streisand, who ended her performance of Evergreen with a facial expression that revealed the fear she’d brought with her to the stage; and Justin Bieber…
Justin Bieber.
Oh my.
I realize this kid from Canada has received more than his share of press lately, and he sure as hell doesn’t need for me to chime in, but sorry, I can’t help but share a few words.
The dude is fucking awesome, okay?
I realize that modifier (i.e., the f-word, above) is too old for his boyish good looks, but please?! OMG, the way he performs, the tone of his voice, his dance moves, his command of the stage… Frankly, I’m rather blown away.
There’s also the hair, of course. (Could he be the next Breck girl?)
Ah, see… there… I’m dating myself.
Justin Bieber was undoubtedly born after the last Breck girl.
And it doesn’t matter.
Although the kid could have a career in shampoo commercials, he will not need to take that route. He is uber-talented. He is… remarkable.
And this fever ain’t no hot flash.
I’m just making an observation.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Monday Reruns: Shopping at Ikea: What's In a Name?
(original post-date: February 10, 2010)
Having a close, personal relationship with words serves me well. It enables me to experience joy whenever I create a new sentence. It permits me to add clever comments to conversations. It gives me a niche where I rest comfortably, appreciative of my avocation.
About a year ago, though, I realized that there’s a time and place when one must abandon her verbal relationships and just shop smartly. For me, the moment occurred at Ikea.
At the time, I was in the market for a coffee table. Not because I was craving one particularly. Rather, the piece of furniture that had been performing that function for several years had become worn. You see, my previous mid-living room surface space was never, in fact, a coffee table. It was, instead, a wicker ottoman that I had purchased at Pier One along with its matching chair. Although the chair had held up relatively well, the ottoman had not. It was much too busy being a “project” for the cats. And when I could see through the sides of the squat, textured rectangle, I knew the cats had completed their project. I also knew it was time to move the piece to the curb and replace it with something less tempting to feline trouble-makers.
Before going to Ikea, I went online to peruse their coffee table options. My friend and neighbor, Debbi, who is my go-to girl when it comes to interior design, perused the website with me. She immediately zeroed in on a coffee table that was light in color, had simple lines, and would therefore blend in well with the other pieces in my living room. Beyond that, it was dirt cheap. But I immediately protested when I saw what Ikea had named this table: “Lack.”
“I can’t buy a piece of furniture named ‘Lack’!” I told Debbi.
My veto power having been enforced, we continued to peruse the pages of coffee table options. We found two or three pieces that also would work well in my living room, and although their prices were quite a bit higher than the one assigned to “Lack,” these tables, at least, did not have loser names.
… So with my pre-shopping research behind me, I headed up to Burbank.
I saw the tables in person. I studied them. I circled around them. And once I had given the matter twenty minutes or so of observation and thought, the choice was clear.
Lack.
(What can I say? Deb was right.)
I recorded the information I would need in order to retrieve my new table from the shelves of inventory, and I headed down to the ground floor, where customers are lured through a maze of goodies that are so small and so inexpensive, one needs a tremendous amount of willpower to resist impulse-shopping.
I didn’t succumb to any unexpected lures, I am proud to say, but I did purposefully spend some time in the lighting section. I already had planned to look at the offerings there, as I needed to replace the floor lamp in my living room.
I should mention, at this point, that much of my living room is all about mobility. With the exception of the furniture pieces that are flush with the wall, I like to be able to move things around. Furniture mobility serves art-making, exercising, and cleaning. So… when I saw a ceiling-directed lamp that featured a junior lamp, which could be moved from its parent and turned about any which way, I was impressed. When I saw that it was only ten dollars, I was even more impressed. Sure, I’d assemble it! What the hell!
It’s name? FINAL.
Yup.
Before leaving the impulse floor, I stopped by the shelves of lightbulbs and collected enough boxes to ensure that my new lamp duo would remain illuminated for years to come.
Then, I headed to check-out.
My prize purchases of the day – “Lack” and “Final” – may have come with negative, downer names, but the bottom line was a source of joy. I had spent less than sixty dollars.
Having a close, personal relationship with words serves me well. It enables me to experience joy whenever I create a new sentence. It permits me to add clever comments to conversations. It gives me a niche where I rest comfortably, appreciative of my avocation.
About a year ago, though, I realized that there’s a time and place when one must abandon her verbal relationships and just shop smartly. For me, the moment occurred at Ikea.
At the time, I was in the market for a coffee table. Not because I was craving one particularly. Rather, the piece of furniture that had been performing that function for several years had become worn. You see, my previous mid-living room surface space was never, in fact, a coffee table. It was, instead, a wicker ottoman that I had purchased at Pier One along with its matching chair. Although the chair had held up relatively well, the ottoman had not. It was much too busy being a “project” for the cats. And when I could see through the sides of the squat, textured rectangle, I knew the cats had completed their project. I also knew it was time to move the piece to the curb and replace it with something less tempting to feline trouble-makers.
Before going to Ikea, I went online to peruse their coffee table options. My friend and neighbor, Debbi, who is my go-to girl when it comes to interior design, perused the website with me. She immediately zeroed in on a coffee table that was light in color, had simple lines, and would therefore blend in well with the other pieces in my living room. Beyond that, it was dirt cheap. But I immediately protested when I saw what Ikea had named this table: “Lack.”
“I can’t buy a piece of furniture named ‘Lack’!” I told Debbi.
My veto power having been enforced, we continued to peruse the pages of coffee table options. We found two or three pieces that also would work well in my living room, and although their prices were quite a bit higher than the one assigned to “Lack,” these tables, at least, did not have loser names.
… So with my pre-shopping research behind me, I headed up to Burbank.
I saw the tables in person. I studied them. I circled around them. And once I had given the matter twenty minutes or so of observation and thought, the choice was clear.
Lack.
(What can I say? Deb was right.)
I recorded the information I would need in order to retrieve my new table from the shelves of inventory, and I headed down to the ground floor, where customers are lured through a maze of goodies that are so small and so inexpensive, one needs a tremendous amount of willpower to resist impulse-shopping.
I didn’t succumb to any unexpected lures, I am proud to say, but I did purposefully spend some time in the lighting section. I already had planned to look at the offerings there, as I needed to replace the floor lamp in my living room.
I should mention, at this point, that much of my living room is all about mobility. With the exception of the furniture pieces that are flush with the wall, I like to be able to move things around. Furniture mobility serves art-making, exercising, and cleaning. So… when I saw a ceiling-directed lamp that featured a junior lamp, which could be moved from its parent and turned about any which way, I was impressed. When I saw that it was only ten dollars, I was even more impressed. Sure, I’d assemble it! What the hell!
It’s name? FINAL.
Yup.
Before leaving the impulse floor, I stopped by the shelves of lightbulbs and collected enough boxes to ensure that my new lamp duo would remain illuminated for years to come.
Then, I headed to check-out.
My prize purchases of the day – “Lack” and “Final” – may have come with negative, downer names, but the bottom line was a source of joy. I had spent less than sixty dollars.
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