The topic of money comes up and everybody starts feeling bad about themselves for one reason or another

I fear this post is going to come across as pure, unadulterated whining--the type of whining that I promise you I've already slapped my face in the mirror about in order to attempt to snap out of it. If that's what it sounds like, I want you, Interested Party, to know that I don't mean it to be. I'm confused, I'm conflicted, and yes, I'm a little jealous and sullen, and quite frankly, I don't like any of it.

Yes, this is going to be a post about wedding planning. Or at least, wedding contemplating. Feel free to skip merrily to the end where I will attempt to have a less-bitter sign-off.

From what I recall of my studies, the bitterness, frustration, jealousy, and subsequent guilt about the antecedent feelings are fairly typical of one from a middle class upbringing. I've been sitting here in the pants I bought on sale, eating the food I got at the grocery store using coupons, surfing the Internet on the computer my dad and I built from salvaged parts several years ago, and staring at other couples sitting pretty in their Ivory Towers of Wedding Privilege (and please, I know how ridiculous that sounds, considering my ability to even be able to legally get married is privilege enough. Remember the guilt I'm feeling?). On my left side, I have the Wedding Industrial Complex shoving champagne toasts and chair covers in my face and my WIC-influenced friends ever so excitedly chatting me up about the open bar we're obviously going to have and all the hijinks they're going to get into as we party into the night. On my right side, I have a family history of modest church hall receptions of punch and cake, and a vast blogosphere of people (yes, even on my beloved APW) who had the resources and mental fortitude to throw awesome parties on "tight" budgets (say, under $15K).

From APW, probably from elsewhere

And here we are, caught in the middle. On the one hand, I'm so, so proud of my parents for raising me to be self-reliant, thrifty, and forward-thinking so that the concept of spending even $5,000 on one day (even, especially!, if it was other peoples' money and not my own) makes me want to throw up in my Payless shoes. On the other hand, I'm beginning to wonder if I'll really regret it if we don't have some sort of reception/party that involves drinking and other people dancing. Then, on the other hand that I've grown out of sheer frustration, I wonder if I will then regret THAT decision in two years when we realize we have to postpone buying a house because we need another two years to re-save up for a decent down payment (or, hell, later this year when I look at my savings and go "hey, where'd my Jetta Money go???").

What it's all boiled down to is me windmilling my arms around in an attempt to stab anything and everything in sight out of frustration with myself and the universe when I read discussions about budgets. I'm jealous of the couples who are shy and private and were over the moon to have a 10-person wedding where they met at the courthouse and then went to dinner at their favorite restaurant afterwards. I'm jealous of the couples who are paying for everything themselves and who seemingly have no qualms about dropping so much money on one event. I'm jealous of the couples who have parents in a position to insist on paying for most things or everything.

I wish we were the type of people who could look at our collective savings and go "Yes. We can afford a baller party that people will have an awesome time at, and not regret not having this money afterwards in the slightest." I wish we were the type of people who, if my mom announced she was liquidating her 401k because it was useless to her, could go "Awesome. Thank you so much, we are forever in your gratitude, and will put you in a very nice home when you're senile." I wish we were the type of people who didn't value social ritual, and could say "Let's get church-married and go home and watch Netflix while drinking 2-buck-Chuck." To say any of these things, however, would be a betrayal of who we are. Realistically, the responses I and The "why would we stop at Burger King when we can just eat trail mix for 14 hours on this road trip" Boy would have would be "This is House Money and also parties are stupid", "omg mom, no, thank you but please no", and "but SB shrieked and danced outside of a restaurant in 40* weather when we told her we were engaged, we can't not invite her or then not feed her!" respectively.

My mom told us to just elope, and if how crazy I'm feeling already is a portent for what's to come, she might be right.

F* this,
Thrine

Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements

According to Blogger's wonderful ability to save drafts of entries the following are topics which have been on my mind but left abandoned due to lack of time or follow-through (in chronological order):

-Gunshots, more specifically how I heard them one night and did nothing about it, despite fancying myself to be the type of person who would call for help if she saw or heard something amiss.

-How much I truly resent having poor eyesight, illustrated by my blind, shuffling walk home from the hipster eye doctor one bright, sunny afternoon after my eyes were dilated.

-The appalling sexism evident in the re-opening of public examination of Chris Brown's assault of Rihanna after "S&M" was released, re: "Did you hear that song? She obviously liked being beaten up, Chris did nothing wrong, poor maligned thing!" (read as: raaaaaaaaaaaaage)

-Work ethic and a sense of responsibility, and how I have it, despite evidence that neither are requirements or even expectations at Erie St TGIF.

-My increasing itch to do better for myself when it comes to my employment because despite being happy in the moment, I'm quite frankly disappointed with how I think my job reflects upon me as a person.

-The great internal conflict I had to face when confronted with Alex's application for a job back in Kentucky, whether or not I was willing to uproot myself if he got the job and what it would say about me whichever way I chose.

-The sadness, ambivalence, and guilt that came along when my friend from high school, Kristen, passed away.

-City life, what I've learned, how I've changed, if I'm ready to leave.

This all, more or less, encompasses my last few months. My last day at Erie St. was Sunday which was almost disappointingly anticlimactic after eleven days of constant, busy shifts. I took a week off so I can slowly pack, and just enjoy my remaining time here on the Northside. Thus far I've been to the beach three times, slept in until I just felt like getting up, painted my nails, spent good time at good bars with some good friends I'm sad to be leaving behind, and less frivolously packed my dvds and books and swept up the living room. After the absolute nightmare that was my move into this apartment, I'm hoping to make the move out of it as pain free as possible.

Lots of Future Things are looming in my sights and tying my tummy up in knots, but I have faith things will settle down soon enough.

Bright Lights, Big City

Tell the Devil I say "hey" when you get back to where you're from

There's been points in my life where I've wondered if I'm somehow broken; things that were big emotional deals for my friends somehow avoided my radar, or more often than not Poncho will marvel at my apathy toward something she would have started busting skulls over. The more people I encounter at my Big City restaurant, the more apparent it's becoming that it is truly not I who is broken: as my bar manager would say, "homies is crazy here, yo."

Back at Suburban restaurant I had my fair share of amusing, frustrating, and infuriating customers, though I am now realizing that those people fell within a normal range of behavior. The guy who told me I wasn't getting a tip because "you don't get [anAmEx Black Card] by giving away money to servants" was exhibiting a familiar, albeit appalling, arrogance. The lady who expressed confusion as to why she had to pay her server because she "has a ponytail" was a perplexing yet recognizable imbalanced person. People who got upset about one thing or another all fell within the standard derivations of frustration and passive-aggression.

Perhaps it is simply the fact that being located in a town with a population of three million just within the city limits means there is a greater chance of encountering people who push the limits of my sanity. I'm more inclined to think that something about the water sanitation or the air pollution in Chicago makes the people here Really Fucking Crazy. At least once a week I'm witness to yet another act that makes me think "surely, this is the most insane thing I will ever see. People can't possibly be more ridiculous than this."

And yet. And yet. My first week at the restaurant I witnessed a dozen dine-and-dash attempts where teenagers would literally go dashing across the dining floor. My first week in the bar I had a lady ask for a bag to puke in so she didn't have to go to the restroom, and some lady leapt the railing on the patio to chase a homeless guy with one of our steak knives. More people than I can count have decided that out and out yelling is a good way to solve their problems. A couple weeks ago two men tried to physically fight their server when they thought they'd been overcharged. Last weekend an angry "guest" accused my afore-quoted bar manager of being "too Jewish" to give him a discount, and an angry family emptied the ketchup and mustard bottles on a table because their server "insulted" them by returning the 10-cent tip they gave him.

This is not normal behavior. The reactions these people have to their food being overcooked or finding themselves without a refill is mind-blowingly disproportionate. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, in my life and experiences would ever have encouraged me to think that acting like some of these people do is okay. Some of the things are just baffling (like thinking it's somehow less public to barf in a bag at your table than inside a stall in a bathroom) while others have outright shocked me. I don't think these nutters are actually nutty in a conventional sense. I do think they are, at some level, psychopaths, because nothing else explains how someone can go from "my hot wings look a bit dry" to calling their server a "dumbass chink bimbo" while demanding new wings for free and threatening to just leave if their dinners aren't perfect.

As my infuriatingly passive-aggressive manager suggested to me, my skin is pretty thin when it comes to some things. I used to be able to shrug off problem customers because I could always see some semblance of logic in their behavior. They would make me angry, but it at least resembled human behavior. This complete lack of rationality or control behind the customers I encounter now gets to me. I don't like the unpredictable. I don't like not knowing if an apology and a free dessert will diffuse the situation or result in a security guard flying across the bar to come to my defense.

The good news is, should I go back to my home base, I'll be prepared for anything.

Strawberry Lemonade,
Cathi

The Tipping Point

Part of the charm of restaurant chains is that, in theory, no matter where you go you will always have the same experience. The same poster of Saturday Night Fever will be on the wall near the bathroom, the same items will be available on the menu and cooked in the same way every time, and the servers will all have the same personalities and be sporting the same witty slogan buttons. When you enter the hallowed halls of a TGIChilibee's, you know exactly what to expect. It's comforting.

I went into my first few days at the new Friday's with trepidation; I'm not good with change and was afraid that I wouldn't make friends. What I wasn't afraid of was the absolute culture shock I would undergo with the location change. I assumed that it wouldn't be terribly different since Bolingbrook has a large population of formerly urban or urban wannabe residents, in addition to a decent population of traveling business folk whose companies are too cheap to lodge them in Chicago proper.

Now normally weekend nights are a boon for the restaurant industry. It's date night for a lot of people, families have time to take the kids out, teenagers are free to roam with later curfews and in general it's a profitable night for both the restaurant and its tipped staff. Sure, you work your butt off but the customary 15-20% gratuity off a huge increase in sales makes for a rewarding end of the night. Friday nights in Bolingbrook, at least in the bar, were usually very busy and filled with people out to have a good time. They ate, they drank, they were merry, and they were generous.

It seems that in large cities that while the increase in business holds true to form, Friday and Saturday nights are colloquially called "amateur nights" in the industry. This because ever so frustratingly clear to me as table after table either left me nothing, or very little in the way of tips. My "guests" had absolutely no excuse. Not only were 95% of them obviously American, but the trays we put the check on have tipping guidlines printed on them in 7 different languages, the first one being English which every single one of my tables spoke. There is no excuse for anyone to tip as badly as they did this past Saturday night, unless that excuse is "being an asshole".

In addition to the demoralizing reality of making less than 8% of my sales that night, I was also surprised to learn that we employ security on weekend nights to, literally, catch people who dine and dash. I didn't understand what was going on until this burly guy called out "Did they pay?" and all the servers heads popped up like meercats and one of them sullenly went "....no." The next thing I know, burly dude physically snatched a swiftly walking teenager around the waist and bodily turned him back around toward his table with the admonition of "Pay your bill. NOW."

I was assured by both servers and management that Saturday nights are an anomoly and not to be discouraged, that people on weekdays and during lunch shifts are much nicer (and better tippers). I just find it crazy that an entire restaurant full of people can behave so poorly all at the same time. I suppose it just reinforces my theory that people operate under a hivemind.

Tip your waitresses,
Cathi

I Am Still Praying For Revolution

she still doesn't have what she deserves
but she wakes up smiling every day
she never really expected more

Being a girl is hard, ya'll.

Since I've been retired from college I've had a lot more free time on my hands to scrutinize every aspect of my life and find Internet Validation to back me up on it. I've traditionally been considered more robot than woman, but lately a lot of things have jumped out of the most well-lit of alleyways to remind me that I am, in fact, a girl and that society at large views me as such.

There's different levels of this, naturally. On the most basic of levels, adhering to societal standards for female beauty and behavior is work. Expensive work, at that. Through the miracles of a combination of genetics and luck, I've been blessed with a generally socially acceptable body and face. I don't face harassment from men and women alike like many, many women do for not falling into society's narrow definition of how a woman should look, but I do feel constant pressure to "be better". I could very much stand to lose my tummy flub, to spend a little extra time on my hair, to tone down my glaring paleness (especially since my skin tone is less "ivory" and more "sickly"), or to have a less lackadaisical approach to selecting my make-up and wardrobe. Even from where I stand at a privileged status-quo with society, achieving any of the above goals requires time, effort, and money that quite frankly I'm not willing to invest at this point in time. I can't imagine the sheer logistics that a bulkier, less-conventional, poorer, and more track-suited woman faces when contending with these same obstacles. God forbid that any of us forget to shave our legs during this quest for societal acceptance.

And that's just the aesthetic value of American females. While there's numerous problematic ways that women are expected to behave (I'm looking at you, "women who are assertive and successful are bitches and shrews"), the one that really gets me is the expectation to be nice and pleasant in the face of being treated like objects. This is rarely as blatant as the old man who once asked a (male) coworker of mine how much he would have to tip for a (female) coworker to accompany him out to his car. That sort of obvious objectification is blessedly dealt with swiftly, harshly, and with great justice. I cannot count the number of times, however, that strangers have told me to smile or laid their hands on me for no reason. I am constantly being touched by friends and strangers alike whether it's just to get my attention by gently grabbing my elbow or shoulder, or to force me to come closer by guiding me by the waist or hips. I've had bar patrons reach out and grab my hand from me to look to see what note I've scribbled in ink on the back and I've had complete strangers put their arms around my shoulders to move me out of their way. While this sort of thing isn't nearly as damaging or offensive as a male coworker being offered money for my services, it is still insidious and indicative of the general mindset that my body belongs to the general public to be both manhandled and commented upon.

The rub here is that if I try to take control of myself by, say, snatching my hand out of bar seat 605's clammy clutch and telling him "please don't touch me, dude. I'm display model only" then I will be viewed as an uptight bitch. I once asked a random bar patron "why?" when he told me to smile. His response? "You're a pretty girl, you should smile!" I know he thought he was just being nice and giving me a compliment but the implication that a) if I were ugly I wouldn't need to smile since I wouldn't be pleasing to look at in the first place and b) my lack of smile was somehow ruining his enjoyment of my presence is appalling.

All this, of course, is not new to me; just old wounds resurfacing after a recent incident made me question my minimally-enlightened view of myself and the world around me. I know that there's still a lot of work to do, both internally and societally, when my first reaction to a male friend aggressively pursuing my, um, "company" was guilt (guilt!). As if I had done something wrong by being present and female and still having the audacity to resist his advances.

Ordinarily I try not to bring up various -isms in this blog, or anywhere for that matter, because not only am I largely uneducated about them but I also feel like I'm not telling you, Interested Party, who is likely of my generation, anything you've never heard before. We're all fairly enlightened about the comparative unfairness of gender relations in our nation, to varying degrees of concern or notice, and I feel a bit silly pointing them out. Sometimes, though, I get a bit rage-y and a blog entry pops out. So here we are.

N'me touchez pas!
Cathi

HDU

We were never meant to be, baby, we just happen

For the most part I live my life in fairly quiet complacency. I keep my head down, my eyes and ears open, and my mouth fairly well shut. It keeps things simple, and I prefer life to be as uncomplicated as possible. Every so often, however, something will set me off and jolt me from my even keel.

The most recent arsonist to light a fire under my feet antagonized me with words meant to be generic, but ended up landing squarely in the Very Personal section of my brain. I try to keep an open mind when it comes to other people's world views, but when push comes to shove, if someone with a different opinion than me actively attacks my point of view, shit gets real.

And by real, I mean that most of my formal logical argumentation training flies out the window and my tactics pretty much devolve to me stuffing my fingers in my ears and shouting "WHAT'S THAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU! IS THAT THE SOUND OF YOU BEING WRONG?!" The instant it gets personal is the instant I stop caring about having an open mind and being a shining example of rationality.

My version of an "open mind" boils down to a sheer perception of rationality and maturity. If a person has spent time thinking about something and therefore reached some sort of conclusion, however wrong I may feel said conclusion to be, I will respect it. When my own rational decisions and conclusions are disrespected, my little feelings get hurt. I like to think that I've made pretty good life choices, and I also like to think that anyone who knows me also knows that I do most things with some sort of well thought-out purpose.

The rough part about my personal-opinion bubble being invaded is that I can't stop obsessing over it, going round and round in my mind, finding newer, stronger, and better reasons that I Am Right. Unfortunately, it all pretty much comes back to the fact that I'm a grown-ass woman, and I'll do what I want! You don't know me!

Step off before I pop off, son.
CMart

Lord, What Fools We Mortals Be

We think the thoughts whether or not we see them through

I'm not one to suffer fools lightly. Among my few and delightful character flaws, this one stands out rather prominently. It often brings out more peripheral undesirable qualities, like aloofness, condescension, and uncontrollable eye-rolling.

Working at a restaurant has exposed me to a wide variety of fools, and unfortunately I've learned very few coping mechanisms. Typically if the foolishness gets to the point where I can no longer keep a corporate-mandated smile on my face, I just run away and get a manager. I've learned to be alert to the signs of an on-coming eye-roll and I believe I've managed to contain them until out of the line of sight of the people causing them. I've not learned to stop myself from sighing in frustration, though.

It's not necessarily that I think myself smarter or better than people (most of the time), it's that despite my chillaxed demeanor, I'm a stickler for rules and regulation. I was probably a bureaucrat in a past or future life. If a scoop of ice cream costs 99 cents, then it costs 99 cents for everybody, all the time. If a coupon states it cannot be used in conjunction with any other specials or discounts, then so be it. If placing a high-chair at the end of a large booth is a fire hazard (and a clumsy-server hazard), then no one is allowed to do it under any circumstances ever. If servers aren't allowed to stand around in the bar, then I will kick them out every time. If a new policy is put into place about not eating "dead" food or "stealing" smoothies, then I will abstain and refuse to be an enabler in said activities.

It kills me when my customers ask me to bend or break rules, laws, or policy for them. If I were a good corporate drone my immediate reaction would be a concerned nod, an offer to see what I could do, and at least meet the "guest" halfway. Tragically, I have a backbone that bristles uncomfortably when faced with rule breaking and I'm unprofessionally brusque with some people, if only to prove the point that what we're doing is an exception. I'll get all stony-faced and say something like "Well, technically no, because of The Rules. I'll talk to a manager to see if we can do something this one time though." I think if I could learn to say that with a smile, I'd get better tips from the cheapass tables who are swindling the system.

Although upon reflection of that last sentence, probably not.

Is it wrong to be a goody-two-shoes and potentially a tattle-tale? I just like consistency, really. I like for my world to make sense and be aligned in neat little packages that I can enforce with an iron fist.

Get off my lawn!
Thrine

Mind Your Own Business: Election 2008

Our shoulders bear an awful weight, but still we trudge on just the same

As this election draws ever nearer, I want nothing more in this world than to find the courage to actually, physically, shove socks down everyone's throats. Heck, not just physical throats. I want the power to shut down the internet, pull the plug on news stations, and give every pundit a terrible, permanent case of laryngitis.

Don't misunderstand me. I, ever so meticulously trained in the Socratic method and Aristotelian rhetorical methods, understand that the only way to get things done in this world is through discourse. Asking questions, argumentation, and debate are the pillars of our society. It is how we create change and raise awareness.

However.

There is a time and a place, people. With infinite more importance than your message are the concepts of Time, Place, and Audience. Before you go spewing marginally true facts and bloviating about your candidate of choice, take a moment to ask yourself these questions: Is the person I'm attacking likely to take heed to any of my points? Are we in a public place? Does this argument serve any purpose whatsoever? Do you even know what you're talking about?

I'm going to vote for Obama, for better or worse. I believe he is, indeed, "The Change We Need", if only because we need a change, period. As my dad, perhaps unwisely, said to some church friends the other night, "Anyone who votes a Republican into office again clearly hasn't been paying attention these last 8 years."

So, please. My mind is made up. Don't tell me what an asshole Obama is. Don't rattle off his Senate record. Don't send me links to videos and articles telling me about all his bad points,especially if they're from Fox News or the GOP. Don't wax eloquent about how he's just gonna be assassinated, or how by electing him we're bringing another 9/11 on our heads.

Just... don't. Stupidity makes me physically ill, and I'm far too apathetic to bother telling you why you're an idiot for citing Bill O'Reilly as the source of your information.

My brain is tired and my eyes are about to fall out of their sockets from all of the involuntary rolling they've been doing.

Is it November 5th yet?
Cathi

No inglés, sorry!

I'm not scared to die, I'm a little bit scared of what comes after

I've generally abstained from discussions about immigration (as pertaining specifically to Border Jumping Mexicans and wall-building lobbyists) and the subsequent topics that follow (If You Live Here You Should Speak English, to be specific), largely because I am a) uninformed and b) apathetic. Largely, I'm uninformed because I'm apathetic. My potential jobs are not in danger of workforce sucking illegals, my welfare is not being drained, and my culture is not being threatened. If anything, I'm pro-Border Jumping Mexicans because man, their food is delicioso and their tequila gets the job done.

As a scholar of a foreign language (and a tourist of others), I'm (academically) of two minds about the whole America = English issue. Mind One says that languages are beautiful and interesting and we should encourage the use of as many as possible. Mind Two says that if I can learn one language and passably babble in two others in under 3 years, then learning English shouldn't be too terrible of a task.

I will admit, however, that when it comes to real world application of my vague convictions, Mind Two wins the fight and feels compelled to join up with the legions of poster-waving conservatives.

I don't mind needing to know basic Spanish to communicate with some of my co-workers. I actually sort of appreciate having an excuse to broaden my lingual horizons. But I do mind when my Spanish-speaking co-workers don't pay me the same courtesy. "No inglés, sorry!" as the sole phrase in your English repertoire doesn't cut it with me.

No más hablo español, Maria.
Caterina


Maria: Excuse me. Please, food to go. Two. Thank you! *walks away*
Cathi: Wait! What food do you want to go?
Maria: No inglés, sorry!
Cathi: Food to go?"
Maria: Sí.
Cathi: What food?
Maria: No inglés, sorry!
Cathi: Um..... qué?
Maria: ¿Qué?
Cathi: Qué...food?
Maria: No inglés, sorry!
Cathi: *racking brain for vocab from Spanish class* Qué... comidas?
Maria: Ah.... pizza.
Cathi: Kid's pizza?
Maria: Sí. Con.... ah... jamón y piña.
Cathi: Dos pizzas? With ham and pineapple?
Maria: No inglés, sorry!
Cathi: Dos pizzas para niños con jamón y piña?
Maria: Sí.
Cathi: *rings it in*
Maria: *hands over money*
Cathi: *cashes it out immediately*
Maria: Dave.
Cathi: What?
Maria: No inglés, sorry!
Cathi: Dave?
Maria: Dave. Menos dinero.
Cathi: Oh.... you get a shift meal?
Maria: No inglés, sorry!

Interlude: A Thinly Veiled Rant

She broke the cardinal rule; never fuck with people who handle your food.

I know it might be hard to believe, but it's come to my attention that a substantial portion of the population is incapable of eating in a restaurant. I know, I know, it seems so simple! And yet, day after day, I am reminded that there is no play book, no wikipedia page on how to properly enjoy your meal at TGIFriday's, no special 900-number to whisper sweet etiquette into your ear.

And so, my friends, I present to you: The Insiders Guide to Eating Out.

Heh.

Pre-Gaming
There are a few things an aspiring "Guest" must know before entering the hallowed halls of an establishment such as TGIFriday's. These are key facts and figures that will make your transition from the dark rock you live under to the wide and varied world of dining easier.

-The person who greets you at the door is your Host. They will direct you to your table and possibly provide you with information pertinent to the rest of your evening. This person is not, strictly speaking, endowed with the responsibility to fetch you anything but a booster seat.
-The person wearing a little apron who asks you about what drinks you might like is your server. This person has many responsibilities, but duties that your server does not perform include...
...cooking your food
...setting the prices
...controlling restaurant temperature
...making sure that all food and beverage items are stocked at all times
...picking the music or controlling its volume
...creating the menu
...deciding on food portion sizes, drink strength, or the way food actually tastes

The Entrance
-DO expect to have to wait for a minute or two to find a Host. There will likely be other Guests who have arrived before you.
-DO NOT ask for a booth if you also need a high chair, unless you want your child teetering high above you as the Host will put the high chair ON the booth, so as not to make your child a fire hazard.
-DO NOT arbitrarily pick a table you would like to sit at unless the table the Host is leading you to will give you cancer or cause immediate death.
-DO NOT give your Host your drink or food orders. That is not their job.

The Initial Greet
-DO NOT respond to inquiries into your day or well being with a drink order. "Diet Coke" is not an appropriate response to "How are you doing today?"
-DO speak to your server. He/She has not yet completed his/her mind-reading training, and as of this moment cannot psychically predict what you would like to drink or eat.

Ordering
-DO know what you would like to eat. If you are not sure, you may ask for more time to think. Your server will, indeed, come back. Holding him/her hostage at your table will only make your server more inclined to forget your soup.
-DO order something from the menu. It is a handy list of all the meals the restaurant offers. If you do not see what you want listed, chances are your server will not be able to make it magically appear in front of you.
-DO verbalize what you would like to eat. Pointing at pictures or simply describing the concept of your choice may lead to confusion, and you know how much you just hate to send food back.
-DO be sure of what you would like. Once your choice has passed your lips it is, indeed, too late to change your mind.
-DO know what you are ordering, and if it contains something you are allergic to or do not like. Buffalo wings are spicy. Alfredo sauce contains lactose. Hamburgers might contain meat.

Waiting
-DO be patient. Your food must actually be cooked and plated. Your server did not attend Hogwarts and cannot just make it appear in front of you.
-DO NOT wonder why a table who came in after you have already received their food. Their steaks are probably not "extra-well done" and their wings are not "extra crispy".

Delivery of Food
-DO pay attention. If you ordered the Triple Stack Jack Quesadillas, then be sure to tell the person who is standing there, holding them, the first time they ask .
-DO speak up if you got the wrong food.
-DO NOT begin to eat food that you did not order.
-DO tell your server right away if you need extra condiments or refills or foresee any needs. Do this once, and in bulk.
-DO NOT ask for something new every time your server returns to your table to give you something you have already asked for. He/She is a server, not a marathon runner.

Payment
-DO make sure you have enough cash on you to pay for everything, or make sure that your credit card will not be declined.
-DO NOT complain just in case you can get something free. If you ordered it, you should expect to pay for it.
-DO NOT try to be cute and say things like "oh, you didn't have to do that" what your server drops your check. It's not cute. Yes, he/she did have to do that.
-DO leave a tip.

Tipping
-DO realize your tip is going to not only the server, but the Host, Food Runners, Bussers, and Bartenders who have helped you out tonight.
-DO understand that your server did not make your hamburger overdone. It is not his/her fault the restaurant is too cold.
-DO NOT take petty complaints out on your server financially.
-DO realize your server is paid HALF of minimum wage. He/She relies on your tip to survive.
-DO realize the 10-15-20% rule is a mere guideline. If you ordered a $20 meal but sat there for an hour and a half, do you really think a $3 tip justifies the time your server spent on you? That's $2/hr, and even added to their wage, still does not meet minimum wage.

If you still have any questions, please, show up at the very end of the day and ask one of the servers. I'm sure they will be more than happy to clear up any confusion.

Burn it to the ground

Dear Comcast,

Fuck you.

No, seriously. I don't normally use that language, and it takes a lot to get me really frustrated and really upset, but congratulations! You've done it!

Whoever trained the people in customer service really did a bang-up job, because they've been just as useless as rumored to be. I don't see what was so hard about sending out a simple sheet of paper to my address. Obviously you know where to send the bills. I've gotten two bills since I've tried to straighten this out. Couldn't you have just sent the form with the bill?

E-mail sounded like a great option, I even spent 4 minutes with the woman whose accent muddied up the "what letter was that?" conversation making sure my e-mail address was 100% correct. Three calls later and no one knows why the e-mail wasn't sent. Was the internet broken? Whose job is it to send that e-mail? Find them and poke them hard in the side and tell them to wake the fuck up and hit the "send" button.

So all that's left to do is show up with the roommate who hasn't BEEN my roommate for 3 months to the service center which I swear to God, doesn't exist. We went looking for it once, didn't find it. So now I have to call her, organize a time when we can both show up, even though we live in completely different towns and have completely different lives.

You're not even sorry! That's what's really getting to me! Not once did I hear an apology for the three months of frustration you've put me through! Not a single "I'm sorry this happened to you" or "We're really sorry this has been so complicated". Not one.

So thanks for nothing. Your cable quality is shitty, your internet connection is sub-par, and your service people smell funny. Here's my new plan: I cancel service, and my ex-roomies get new service, and YOU waive the installation fees because YOU fucked up for three months.

I hope some old lady storms in with a hammer and breaks shit at your offices again.

No love,
Cathi

Dear Creepy Old Men

'm just a painter and I'm drawing a blank

Dear Middle Aged Married Bar Patrons,

I see your wedding band. Don't think that I don't automatically check for those when assessing how I should approach you. It's cute when we exchange witty banter. It's even cute when you wink at me after I give you a cheeky smile as I walk away to place your order, and then nudge-nudge your colleagues. It's not cute when you comment on my body type or in a double-whammy of information seeking hypothetically remark upon my sex life with my boyfriend. Yes, I'm flirting with you and yes, when you flirt back, I will continue to reciprocate. It's called working for tips. I will not, however, give you my number or meet up with you for drinks later, you committed ass clown. I might be selling my personality for money, but that's it. If you're in the business of paying girls for their time, get a hooker, it's less fattening.

Love ;)
Cathi

Condescension, idiocy

I would die for you one time, but never again

Of all the various tones of voice a person can take with me, condescension is my least favorite. I can handle most other insulting ways of speaking, but an assumption of intellectual superiority mixed with pity has a special way of grating on my nerves. I can smile and be polite in the face of anger, annoyance, frustration, and even outright derision, but the instant the rate of speech slows down, the pitch gets sing-songy, and the eyebrows raise incredulously, my patience drops to zero.

There must be some unidentified gamma ray produced by The Spotlight that enlarges the ego and shrinks the empathy gland of those caught in it. Actors are more famous for their superiority complex than they are for their skill at their craft, directors even more so. Radio personalities are no different, notorious for their "my way or the highway" attitudes. While it's commendable to beat the odds and become one of The Favored Few in any industry that requires creative talent and skill, it strikes me as odd that those who succeed also claim intellectual dominance over those less marketable. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it's the peons and "gofers" who make The Spotlight possible. It seems like The Favored Few should be nicer if they want their precious Spotlight to keep shining.

Of course, as a peon myself, my loyalties are somewhat Viva la Revolution in nature.

It's too bad reverse psychology doesn't work backwards. Which, I suppose, would just make it regular-type psychology, but how is it fair that it's only a one-way process? There's nothing more I would like to do right now than intentionally screw up this Jackhammers game since Il Dusche seems to expect me to, but, as satisfying as that may be, it won't endear me to The Powers That Be. And they have the Pen that writes the Paycheck, an no one messes with the payroll department. Except embezzlers, I guess.

Jackhammers,
Thrine

WJOL sux0rz

Someday we'll get nostalgic for disaster

They say that when you want to consider the value of time, to ask various people. The value of a month, ask a woman who just gave birth to a premature baby. The value of a second, ask the person who just avoided an accident. As I sit here at WJOL, heading into hour number four, I've fogotten the value of time. In fact, I've forgotten the value of being busy. I can't remember what it's like to not be bored. I'm a bored board-op. A bored-op, if you will.

I'm one of those unfortunate people who can hear the high-pitched electronic signals. If a television is on nearby, I'll know. This was a point of contention for ex-roomie Kate and I, when you had to (gasp) manually turn our dorm's TV on and off, so Kate, whenever she was done with watching her show, would just turn the TV to an input channel, or put it on mute. She couldn't hear the signal, so it was as good as off for her. I, on the other hand, would wake up from a nap, annoyed, with a migraine. This dog-like super power of mine is good for conserving electricity, but very bad for my chosen career path, what with all the equipment that makes all sorts of fun noises.

Annoyance of the minute: WJOL is holding me hostage. Apparently "Sure, I can work between 11 and 3" means "I can be here indefinately, because my other job which needs me there at 4 isn't important at all". This is now the second week in a row that I've had to call Friday's to tell them I was going to be late due to a radio conflict. This is the last time I work a radio job prior to an important committment. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I'm one fooling away from burning the studio down, Office Space stylie.

Suddenly, time seems very important. Funny how this happens.

Annoyance update: Apparently, this is my fault. I should have known that whenever one works a game, one stays until the end. Nevermind that I didn't know that. Nevermind that no one told me there was a game. I guess it's my fault for expecting my employer to respect me. Friday's has spoiled me, it seems.

Enough ranting. The bright side of this is I now have more time to ponder whether or not I should stop for gas and fast food on my way back to Bolingbrook. On one hand, it's not Friday's fault that my free hour went away. On the other hand, spending 15 extra minutes to not run out of gas on the way there, and not pass out from starvation might be worth it. The philosophical questions are mounting.

As I think I'm actually on the verge of transcending from "annoyed" to "angry", it's time to get my fingers off the keyboard.

Cathi out.

Septembre Elf

I'm about to embark upon a mild diatribe that was intended for two days ago, but the lack of immediate internet access makes timing a bit tricky.

"9/11" annoys me. Not in the way that mosquito bites annoy me and not quite in the same way vertical and horizonal stripes worn in combination annoy me. Perhaps it's the use of the numbers, rather than the date that gets my gears grinding, but it's mostly the attitude that surrounds the date.

We are encouraged to be blindly patriotic out of respect on this day while at the same time from different sources told to be skeptical, critical. I for one am just trying to go about my life normally. Did my gut clench up just a little bit every time I had to tell someone that school started on "September 11th"? Yes. Did theirs when they heard me say it? Probably. Every time someone shows images of "9/11" I get the same panicky feeling I got 5 years ago when I was watching that footage live, and I'm not sure I'll ever get over that.

I'm all about honor, duty, respect, and patriotism. I believe that we should honor the unknowing people who died that that respectfully, regardless of whether it was truly an Al-Queda attack or a conspiracy of our own government. I take conscious pride in being an American more than your average college student probably does. I take offence, however, at people proclaiming that we will "never forget". "Never Forget" is a Holocaust phrase, not that it was expressly copyrighted for it, and I find it a bit unfair to the families and survivors of the Holocaust to put the same amount of importance on September 11th as we do that. I find it ill advised to make that claim when we will forget, in some fashion or another. We all remember the attack on Pearl Harbor but not the date.

I just want to move on. I want to go to school, work at my job, fall in love, see the world, and love my neighbor without doom, gloom, terrorists, and National Security looming over me. Are we safer? I don't know. We were not safe in 2001? I don't know. Is safety something I'm even concerned about? Frankly, no. Stop filling my head with propoganda. Stop using fancy words loaded with connotations to manipulate my thoughts. Stop this "us and them" mentality. Stop telling me not to forget, and stop trying to rule my life with fear. I won't have it.

Love for All,
Cathi

Interesting entry at last.

Live your life just like a dream without the pain of goodbyes.

I've decided that I'm never going to share anything ever again. Not thoughts, opinions, feelings, cake slices (not that I ever shared those in the first place), or things I love. I will be wholly selfish when it comes to my passions. If I find a band I like, I will keep them to myself, because it's sharing news about bands that ruins things that are "mine" like Fall Out Boy, and hopefully LBC eventually. If I love a restaurant, no longer shall I take my friends to experience it! I will keep the knowledge of the delightful atmosphere, charming ambiance, and delectable food to myself, so that no one can scoff or counterdict me. There's nothing more hurtful than having someone you care about be entirely disinterested in something you love. Now I know how middle school teachers feel.

For anyone who is concerned about my life and limb, I leave for the land of Auschwitz and Chicago's main supply of construction laborers in less than a month. People keep asking me why on earth I want to go to Poland, and my triumphant yell of "back to the motherland!" never seems to satisfy them. I think we all need some sense of history in order to fulfill our silly need of cosmic purpose, and getting a glimpse of the country where perhaps more than half of my bloodline can call "home" seems important for some reason. Teaching English to a people whose language I speak literally 5 words of ("mówimy po polsku" and "Nazywam sie Cathi") is somewhat secondary to the mere act of setting foot on Polish soil. I shall have to curb the urge to start barking orders in Geramn, just to see how many people drop whatever they are doing and surrender to me.

Disappointment is a funny thing. Sometimes it crushes your soul in a vice-like grip administered by a piercing glare, and other times you feel sorry, but not too sorry, because becoming consistantly better at golf is not necessarily your fault.

Nevermind,
Cathi