We just finished watching season one of Friday Night Lights, a really great series about the culture of high school football in small-town Texas.
Right here, right now I need to think like I’m playing high school football in Texas, where they make moments of greatness out of playing your heart out on a football field, and where it matters if you give your all.
I’ve never had an experience like that, but now, I need to make it happen here, on my own. Right here, right now, I decide what I’m bringing to this game, and whether or not I can set aside all my bunk and move and fight and play and WIN.
Clear Eyes. Full Hearts. Can’t Lose.
I don’t think it’s all about winning, but I'm seeing it is about the same thing that you have to do when you go after a win--the all-out, suck-it-up, shove-everything-aside-for-the-moment focus and drive. In my day-after-day life I don’t know how to win, I don’t naturally see life that way. But I need to start figuring out how to see it that way, so I can win here, so that my life is not about running just for the exercise, practicing for more practice. When does the exercise ever pay off? Sure, in the day-to-day quality of life, but can’t it be for something else too? For something more? I mean I do that discipline thing physically, running yet knowing I’m not going to win any races, so in this, my writing life, can I shoot for, expect it to pay off bigger?
It has to at some point. Practice, discipline, writing exercise, whatever you want to call it, the lifestyle of exercise and hitting it hard every day here has to pay off, in some way more than just in the quality of the everyday. My life cannot be just about the process and the exercise forever--the treadmill effect. Writing everyday looks and feels great, but am I getting anywhere?
At some point, it all needs to come together for a game, a moment, a time where I have to rise to the occasion and freaking DO MY THING. Get it out there, live, love, dance, run, play, write. Be engaged in every way and just do it.
Clear Eyes. Full Hearts. Can't Lose.
When is, what is, how is that going to be me? I’ve felt it many times, that it was time to show up and play, but I was nowhere near a game. Now I’ve been here, on the practice field and it’s time to show up for a damn game and just damn play--to love the game and just play it. I know there’s a great feeling there, even though I’ve not had it—-that’s what makes me cry when I see it. I know it’s true, and I know it’s great and freeing, and I want to be out there on the field, run my heart out, play the game, do my thing. I’ve never gotten to do my thing, and do it well--haven’t had a thing. Haven’t ever had it all click and work and come together. I have done plenty of things that weren’t completely me and done them well enough, but I haven’t done my thing, been me and just played my heart out and won. Done it all and left it all on the field? Naw.
To do that I’d have to get out of my own head and my own dysfunction and just run, PLAY--not just be. I actually know how to do that, just be. A lot of people don’t. I know how to be fine just being, I don’t have to be doing something, don’t have to be in the arena, I enjoy very much observing the game—I’m very comfortable in my own skin doing that. But now...
Clear Eyes. Full Hearts. Can’t Lose.
Can’t lose because clear eyes and a full heart are all you need. All you need to play, do your thing. That is winning.
I’m in a difficult place. I don’t know how to take any more steps from here. I’m not playing with abandon—-running, scoring, loving the moment and working my ass off—-I don’t know how to do that. I’m still practicing, running laps, preparing for something I don’t know will ever come and something I don’t know how to get to...I don’t even know how to get there.
So, right now I’m tempted to back off this drill, but I bet this is the place where the real work might actually get done. I’ve got to dig in, push that sled across the field with all I’ve got. Push, pull--practice with more than I’ve got--with so much that I’ll be crushed and disappointed if I don’t win, don’t play well,or if I never get to play. Crushed and disappointed--not looking forward to that.
Here I am trying, practicing, working, getting in shape for a game I don’t know, and I don’t know what is going to be required of me. I don’t like that, I like to know what is required of me, and what it’s going to cost before I even think about playing. But I’m here now, already, and, well, I’ve got to keep going, I have a lot of practice time in already. I need to love it though. I need to love this game to play it freely and live it and have it be mine and me and to ever hope to get in the zone, to ever hope to have a great game.
Clear Eyes. Full Hearts. Can’t Lose.
I’ve had that underlying feeling of dysfunction every time I’ve tried to do anything I didn’t have wired, didn’t know I could do, was perhaps above me. Nothing was supposed to ever be above me, it was all going to be cake. So, when I have to put up and not instantly get it right—I start to feel dysfunctional. I get that hollow feeling, the undermining insecurity, doubt, regret...all that. I know it well. That’s why I’ve taught school, aerobics, why I work in a coffee/wine shop. Teach me to do something and it’s already beneath me. Show me a formula—no problem. It’s this other stuff—LIFE—where there is no instructor and no manual, that’s where I get dysfunctional, unconfident and paralyzed. Not that much in life does it to me anymore, I probably choose from things that won’t make me feel that way, won’t require things of me I don’t already know how to give.
That’s why this. That’s why writing, that’s why the incredible difficulty here, and the impossible way forward. It’s the decision to let something matter so much that if I survive it, let alone succeed in it, what an incredible thing I will learn...to make something a priority, to work on it and practice, then shove everything aside to pull it all out and play and fight and work through it all and leave it all on the field.
I don’t know how to do that...but I’m going to figure it out.
Clear Eyes. Full Hearts. Can’t Lose.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
And That's Not The Half Of It....
SO...
I locked myself out of my house. Fortunately I wasn't still in my pjs. I had just decided to put a couple logs on the fire before taking my dog for a walk. I stepped out onto the deck for some wood, and the door shut. That was sometime around 3:30. Now it's 6:30, and the locksmith just let me in and is fixing the door.
It's been a heinous three hours. I spent the first one trying to break in, and trying to get my dog to put her paws on the handle--she was inside. Just that weight would have opened it, I thought. She's smart, but couldn't master that without opposible thumbs.
Then I banged on a couple neighbors' doors that I sort of know and feel comfortable with, and they weren't home. Then I went to a neighbor I wasn't comfortable with, but was home, used the phone, but did not want to stay there, plus I had a Pilates session I was due for, but no cell to call to cancel. The locksmith wasn't due for an hour, so I ran to the gym--in freezing, windy weather--used the internet and phone to let one of my students know the deal. She picked me up, brought me home and waited with me in her car until the locksmith showed up. I was to have dinner with her and the other student, sort of friends now, after Pilates anyway. They said just forget about the session, and come over as soon as I can.
When I called the locksmith company at 4:30, they said it would be an hour, maybe a little longer. When I called again at 5:45 they said if he gets there after 6 they'll have to charge me more. The guy got here at 6:02. I tried to fight that battle but he threatened to drive away.
"How do I know you just didn't take your time driving over here?" I asked.
"You don't," he said.
He is so right, and he has all the power. It's bitter cold out.
Well the guy had to drill out the door handle, so it's taking awhile to fix. I have to walk the dog before I can go to dinner, and I've been out in the weather for most of three hours and am freezing, and starving, so I don't feel much like doing that. Neither my dog, me, or my Pilates people got a workout in.
Did I mention my heat is out?
I locked myself out of my house. Fortunately I wasn't still in my pjs. I had just decided to put a couple logs on the fire before taking my dog for a walk. I stepped out onto the deck for some wood, and the door shut. That was sometime around 3:30. Now it's 6:30, and the locksmith just let me in and is fixing the door.
It's been a heinous three hours. I spent the first one trying to break in, and trying to get my dog to put her paws on the handle--she was inside. Just that weight would have opened it, I thought. She's smart, but couldn't master that without opposible thumbs.
Then I banged on a couple neighbors' doors that I sort of know and feel comfortable with, and they weren't home. Then I went to a neighbor I wasn't comfortable with, but was home, used the phone, but did not want to stay there, plus I had a Pilates session I was due for, but no cell to call to cancel. The locksmith wasn't due for an hour, so I ran to the gym--in freezing, windy weather--used the internet and phone to let one of my students know the deal. She picked me up, brought me home and waited with me in her car until the locksmith showed up. I was to have dinner with her and the other student, sort of friends now, after Pilates anyway. They said just forget about the session, and come over as soon as I can.
When I called the locksmith company at 4:30, they said it would be an hour, maybe a little longer. When I called again at 5:45 they said if he gets there after 6 they'll have to charge me more. The guy got here at 6:02. I tried to fight that battle but he threatened to drive away.
"How do I know you just didn't take your time driving over here?" I asked.
"You don't," he said.
He is so right, and he has all the power. It's bitter cold out.
Well the guy had to drill out the door handle, so it's taking awhile to fix. I have to walk the dog before I can go to dinner, and I've been out in the weather for most of three hours and am freezing, and starving, so I don't feel much like doing that. Neither my dog, me, or my Pilates people got a workout in.
Did I mention my heat is out?
Air Force Law
Wives of Air Force pilots pretty much count on everything going to hell as soon as the guys leave...something always happens.
Sure enough, Kevin left yesterday, and I came home late last night after work to find I could not get the heat going. My warm little beast and I crowded together in the bed with lots of blankets, and slept well, but the house was freezing this morning. I like being reminded of my childhood and everything, but it would be nice to have a little help with the heat--we are in the middle of a cold snap. I checked out the heater but I don't know what the hell I'm looking at. Good thing I have all that pioneer-like fire-building experience...I've kept the fire going all day.
Snow just started falling. I hope it keeps up. I think I have enough wood to last until Thanksgiving.
Sure enough, Kevin left yesterday, and I came home late last night after work to find I could not get the heat going. My warm little beast and I crowded together in the bed with lots of blankets, and slept well, but the house was freezing this morning. I like being reminded of my childhood and everything, but it would be nice to have a little help with the heat--we are in the middle of a cold snap. I checked out the heater but I don't know what the hell I'm looking at. Good thing I have all that pioneer-like fire-building experience...I've kept the fire going all day.
Snow just started falling. I hope it keeps up. I think I have enough wood to last until Thanksgiving.
Home Fires
Nothing reminds me of my childhood or makes me feel like home, more than a fire in the fireplace.
When I was a kid, it was the only heat we had in our little house. Yes, we were in California, but we got freezing temperatures often in the winter. I remember my brother and I would hear the fire being built early on a school morning--we didn’t have to get out from under our electric blankets until we heard the crackling--then we'd scamper out in our jams to warm up and eat breakfast in front of the fire before venturing back into the cold bedrooms and bathroom to get ready for school. We had to stack firewood and chop kindling every day when we got home, like some kind of pioneer children, we thought.
When I was in high school my parents put in the central heat (and air thank God), and, although we still had a fire most mornings, we’d sometimes hear the click of the furnace and knew we had to get up--not nearly as cozy as the crackling. My parents still have a fire most days in the winter, it’s more of a lifestyle thing now, I suppose, they enjoy camping out there in front of it and the big screen. I love going home and feeling that radiant heat soak into my skin until I have to go outside to cool off. It’s common to venture out onto the porch in barefeet and pj’s when I’m home to grab a couple of sticks, just like when I was a kid. You know those feet will warm up quick once your laying back in front of that fireplace next to a lazy dog.
Well here, for the first time in a few houses, we have a real fireplace, two of them actually, in our tiny three-story rowhouse. Yesterday I decided not to turn on the heat, but to move my writing space downstairs next to the fire. I ventured out to the deck in pjs barefooted, grabbed a couple of sticks and got one started quickly. After I get the coffee going I was so jazzed with myself and my space—I felt like me, smelled like me (smoke), and decided it was going to be a great winter here. I’m thankful for these chilly days, and for the gray skies. With the cold I get to feel the heat from the fire, and the flames shine brighter next to the window when there’s no sunlight.
Anyway, the toothless man who knocked on the door and sold me the wood a couple weeks ago is going to have to come back soon--I’m burning through that first stack quickly. My salary goes to all my indulgences--better wine, better cheese, better bread, better coffee, dark chocolate (for my dog), and wood. Lot’s of dry, easily burnable, instant warmth and comfort.
I'm happy when I’m not having to do anything but dress in jeans and a sweater, boots and a scarf, walk among the fallen leaves out in the cold, then come home to build a fire for the evening. It’s where I’m from, and maybe where I belong. The desert? The tropics? The city? Even a foreign country? Sure I can do them, love and enjoy them, but to feel like me I need some kind of outdoors not unlike central California, and a season with some chill so I can follow up an autumn walk sitting before a crackling fire with a sleepy dog.
So, I'm feeling at home here.
When I was a kid, it was the only heat we had in our little house. Yes, we were in California, but we got freezing temperatures often in the winter. I remember my brother and I would hear the fire being built early on a school morning--we didn’t have to get out from under our electric blankets until we heard the crackling--then we'd scamper out in our jams to warm up and eat breakfast in front of the fire before venturing back into the cold bedrooms and bathroom to get ready for school. We had to stack firewood and chop kindling every day when we got home, like some kind of pioneer children, we thought.
When I was in high school my parents put in the central heat (and air thank God), and, although we still had a fire most mornings, we’d sometimes hear the click of the furnace and knew we had to get up--not nearly as cozy as the crackling. My parents still have a fire most days in the winter, it’s more of a lifestyle thing now, I suppose, they enjoy camping out there in front of it and the big screen. I love going home and feeling that radiant heat soak into my skin until I have to go outside to cool off. It’s common to venture out onto the porch in barefeet and pj’s when I’m home to grab a couple of sticks, just like when I was a kid. You know those feet will warm up quick once your laying back in front of that fireplace next to a lazy dog.
Well here, for the first time in a few houses, we have a real fireplace, two of them actually, in our tiny three-story rowhouse. Yesterday I decided not to turn on the heat, but to move my writing space downstairs next to the fire. I ventured out to the deck in pjs barefooted, grabbed a couple of sticks and got one started quickly. After I get the coffee going I was so jazzed with myself and my space—I felt like me, smelled like me (smoke), and decided it was going to be a great winter here. I’m thankful for these chilly days, and for the gray skies. With the cold I get to feel the heat from the fire, and the flames shine brighter next to the window when there’s no sunlight.
Anyway, the toothless man who knocked on the door and sold me the wood a couple weeks ago is going to have to come back soon--I’m burning through that first stack quickly. My salary goes to all my indulgences--better wine, better cheese, better bread, better coffee, dark chocolate (for my dog), and wood. Lot’s of dry, easily burnable, instant warmth and comfort.
I'm happy when I’m not having to do anything but dress in jeans and a sweater, boots and a scarf, walk among the fallen leaves out in the cold, then come home to build a fire for the evening. It’s where I’m from, and maybe where I belong. The desert? The tropics? The city? Even a foreign country? Sure I can do them, love and enjoy them, but to feel like me I need some kind of outdoors not unlike central California, and a season with some chill so I can follow up an autumn walk sitting before a crackling fire with a sleepy dog.
So, I'm feeling at home here.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Addiction
Well, it turned out okay—my bad night’s sleep didn’t totally wreck my writing time, and my little beast’s scarfing of an entire chocolate bar hasn’t killed her. It made her antsy all night and demanding of an outing this morning--she just went crazy in the backyard, racing around like she never does in her own yard, running fast figure-eights and kicking up leaves. Usually she’s still in bed at this time. But today she’s feeling the effects of a hangover—a chocolate hangover.
Last night she got a hold of an expensive bar we just opened from my work, and ate the whole thing--The whole, 74%, $5.25, large, dark chocolate bar. Her nineteen-pound self ate it all.
We finished dinner and I cleared the table except for the bar. We both left the room, then Kevin found her a few minutes later smacking the wrapping. Not a bit left, but evidence all around her.
So we had to endure her ramping up last night before bed, pacing a bit in the night as she tried to rest, and her absolute craziness this morning. She went in the backyard a couple of times and ran circles, but only to demand back in with an aggressive yelp and an almost verbal insistence that we go out for a run. I’ve endured the stare and she’s finally settled some, but the second I get up or move a chair she’s all amped up again. I am going to have to get her out big before I go to work—else she’ll be inside bouncing off the walls until we get home. I’ll try to work the caffeine out of her little system with a quick 30-minute run off-leash—that’s about all I can do for her.
It’s not the first time she’s poisoned herself on chocolate, she’s done it a few times. We had her only a week or two—still hadn’t decided if she was going to make the cut, if we were going to bring her home to the US with us from Okinawa—when we left her in the car with a few purchases we had made while we went into a restaurant. I forgot about the dark chocolate bunny I had hidden from my husband, his Easter treat. It wasn’t a large one but it was solid.
She couldn’t even eat it all. We came out of the restaurant and she was all sleepy, laid out with chocolate smeared all around her, bits of wrapper and the bunny ears nearby. She was drunk, completely wasted, on chocolate. We couldn’t blame her then, she was a street dog, accustomed to having to find whatever she could to survive, not yet trusting the always-full bowl of food at home, still on the scrounge.
But now? She should know better now. Today she’s all hungover with no excuse of need or necessity but because, like me, she just needed some good chocolate, dammit. Can I really blame her? I’m also perfectly provided for yet I sometimes orge-out on things that are really comforting me--food, wine, chocolate, a really hot shower…
A year ago it was the Halloween candy she got into when we weren’t watching, all the tiny Snickers and Milky Ways we bought for the neighborhood kids--only the wrappers were remaining. Yes, we know her hangover routine well—it means a bad night’s sleep for all of us as she paces and we keep waking up to ensure she hasn’t gone into a chocolate-induced coma.
It’s just chocolate really, that she gets into trouble with—she doesn’t do the trash much or beg at home—she snags an occasional chicken bone she finds on our walks, but again, who can blame her? It was her living, now a dysfunction from her past. It’s unseemly, embarrassing and ridiculous with what she now has provided for her, but still, are any of us any different? I reminded my husband of this (he was still verbally berating her hours after the incident), she was curled up next to him, he was petting her and sipping a gin and tonic.
It’s not good for her, but she cannot help herself. So, we recommit to keep the chocolate up—not just up now, but away, tightly away. No enabling.
We must remember we have an addict in our midst.
Last night she got a hold of an expensive bar we just opened from my work, and ate the whole thing--The whole, 74%, $5.25, large, dark chocolate bar. Her nineteen-pound self ate it all.
We finished dinner and I cleared the table except for the bar. We both left the room, then Kevin found her a few minutes later smacking the wrapping. Not a bit left, but evidence all around her.
So we had to endure her ramping up last night before bed, pacing a bit in the night as she tried to rest, and her absolute craziness this morning. She went in the backyard a couple of times and ran circles, but only to demand back in with an aggressive yelp and an almost verbal insistence that we go out for a run. I’ve endured the stare and she’s finally settled some, but the second I get up or move a chair she’s all amped up again. I am going to have to get her out big before I go to work—else she’ll be inside bouncing off the walls until we get home. I’ll try to work the caffeine out of her little system with a quick 30-minute run off-leash—that’s about all I can do for her.
It’s not the first time she’s poisoned herself on chocolate, she’s done it a few times. We had her only a week or two—still hadn’t decided if she was going to make the cut, if we were going to bring her home to the US with us from Okinawa—when we left her in the car with a few purchases we had made while we went into a restaurant. I forgot about the dark chocolate bunny I had hidden from my husband, his Easter treat. It wasn’t a large one but it was solid.
She couldn’t even eat it all. We came out of the restaurant and she was all sleepy, laid out with chocolate smeared all around her, bits of wrapper and the bunny ears nearby. She was drunk, completely wasted, on chocolate. We couldn’t blame her then, she was a street dog, accustomed to having to find whatever she could to survive, not yet trusting the always-full bowl of food at home, still on the scrounge.
But now? She should know better now. Today she’s all hungover with no excuse of need or necessity but because, like me, she just needed some good chocolate, dammit. Can I really blame her? I’m also perfectly provided for yet I sometimes orge-out on things that are really comforting me--food, wine, chocolate, a really hot shower…
A year ago it was the Halloween candy she got into when we weren’t watching, all the tiny Snickers and Milky Ways we bought for the neighborhood kids--only the wrappers were remaining. Yes, we know her hangover routine well—it means a bad night’s sleep for all of us as she paces and we keep waking up to ensure she hasn’t gone into a chocolate-induced coma.
It’s just chocolate really, that she gets into trouble with—she doesn’t do the trash much or beg at home—she snags an occasional chicken bone she finds on our walks, but again, who can blame her? It was her living, now a dysfunction from her past. It’s unseemly, embarrassing and ridiculous with what she now has provided for her, but still, are any of us any different? I reminded my husband of this (he was still verbally berating her hours after the incident), she was curled up next to him, he was petting her and sipping a gin and tonic.
It’s not good for her, but she cannot help herself. So, we recommit to keep the chocolate up—not just up now, but away, tightly away. No enabling.
We must remember we have an addict in our midst.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Flurries
Yep, a few snowflakes blew past me when I was walking my dog today in the cold wind out by the Potomac. Not enough to stick, but still, very cool to see after spending the last few autumns and winters in the desert and on a tropical island. Finally we have weather that suits the season--kind of helps put me in the mood for the holidays. Also, the red berries are out on the two-story-tall holly tree outside our house. It's just begging for holiday lights after Thanksgiving, unfortunately I can't figure out how I'm going to get them up there....
I'm going to try out both of the little fireplaces in our house tonight and make a big pot of soup to warm me up. I'm not used to these temperatures, can't seem to bundle up enough....Walking my dog at night is now an act of courage and an isometric workout. I'm guessing I'll get used to it by about March.
I'm going to try out both of the little fireplaces in our house tonight and make a big pot of soup to warm me up. I'm not used to these temperatures, can't seem to bundle up enough....Walking my dog at night is now an act of courage and an isometric workout. I'm guessing I'll get used to it by about March.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Elasticity
I can keep the weight off, I can color my hair (although, haven't had to yet), I can keep up-to-date with trends and accept all kinds of new ideas. I can keep learning and get smarter, better, wiser, stronger and more flexible, but....I can't seem to keep my lifelong partner, Elasticity, from running out on me. He sneaks out and then lies about it--like I'm not going to catch on.
Where is he going? No one said he could leave....none of us get to just leave....we have to stick it out to the end....I suspect he's running off with someone younger who is easier to live with--fat in the cheeks, plenty of sub-cu and all of that.
You know what E? Go ahead, I can hack it, I'll be fine, I have other friends. But, odds are she's going to get tubby you know--you won't be happy when you have to carry all THAT around someday....
Where is he going? No one said he could leave....none of us get to just leave....we have to stick it out to the end....I suspect he's running off with someone younger who is easier to live with--fat in the cheeks, plenty of sub-cu and all of that.
You know what E? Go ahead, I can hack it, I'll be fine, I have other friends. But, odds are she's going to get tubby you know--you won't be happy when you have to carry all THAT around someday....
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Proud
Someone recently told me they are proud of me.
I don't really know how to handle that, don't know what to do with that information....don't know if I deserve it, if I earned it, if it's okay to just let that lie....
Regardless, I felt it. It was a tiny affirmation, a bit of help. Someone, who I thought wasn't noticing, took notice of my fight for a second and said "good job," when I didn't think I had any approval. It was unexpected. I don't know what to think about it.
Proud of what? My working so much? Working so hard? My struggle to find some truth? My efforts to figure out life and continue even when the answers I find aren't answers at all and I get nowhere? The fact that I keep banging my head up against a wall to be understood, kind of get that it ain't ever going to happen, but keep banging anyway?
Proud of me. I've got people who love me, think I'm or fun or a great friend, but proud?
Since I've never, ever, lived up to my supposed potential in any area of my life, I've never even been proud of myself. I've always known I could and should do more, but, for whatever reasons, have not done it. Now, after a long wait, I've taken a couple steps, finally, on my own, to be more me, and someone is proud of me. I'm not sure I've done enough. A couple of people have been proud of small steps I have taken along the way, and have said, "keep going," but I'm not sure anyone has just been proud of me. Not sure anyone has really seen what the hell it has been like for me to get here, yet I'm not even close to where I need to go. Naw, I don't deserve it. It's not time to say those things, I'm not sure I can even reach any of my goals or become a better person--probably won't, actually....
I recently read that the only thing worse than having people say, "You'll never amount to anything," is having them say, "You can, and should, be able to do it all and it should be easy for you." That's what I heard starting in kindergarten. It quit being easy at Fifth grade, and I figured it was my fault I never did it all. I was supposed to do great things....
But, now, someone is proud of me? It sure was interesting to hear.
I'm not quite sure what to do with that information....
I don't really know how to handle that, don't know what to do with that information....don't know if I deserve it, if I earned it, if it's okay to just let that lie....
Regardless, I felt it. It was a tiny affirmation, a bit of help. Someone, who I thought wasn't noticing, took notice of my fight for a second and said "good job," when I didn't think I had any approval. It was unexpected. I don't know what to think about it.
Proud of what? My working so much? Working so hard? My struggle to find some truth? My efforts to figure out life and continue even when the answers I find aren't answers at all and I get nowhere? The fact that I keep banging my head up against a wall to be understood, kind of get that it ain't ever going to happen, but keep banging anyway?
Proud of me. I've got people who love me, think I'm or fun or a great friend, but proud?
Since I've never, ever, lived up to my supposed potential in any area of my life, I've never even been proud of myself. I've always known I could and should do more, but, for whatever reasons, have not done it. Now, after a long wait, I've taken a couple steps, finally, on my own, to be more me, and someone is proud of me. I'm not sure I've done enough. A couple of people have been proud of small steps I have taken along the way, and have said, "keep going," but I'm not sure anyone has just been proud of me. Not sure anyone has really seen what the hell it has been like for me to get here, yet I'm not even close to where I need to go. Naw, I don't deserve it. It's not time to say those things, I'm not sure I can even reach any of my goals or become a better person--probably won't, actually....
I recently read that the only thing worse than having people say, "You'll never amount to anything," is having them say, "You can, and should, be able to do it all and it should be easy for you." That's what I heard starting in kindergarten. It quit being easy at Fifth grade, and I figured it was my fault I never did it all. I was supposed to do great things....
But, now, someone is proud of me? It sure was interesting to hear.
I'm not quite sure what to do with that information....
Friday, November 14, 2008
Just Regulars
It was rainy all day. I went for Vietnamese soup instead of for my run, and decided to take the car to work--10 blocks away. All the spaces in the back were taken, so I parked on the street in a 2-hour spot--I'd have to remember to move it.
Inside, it was slow as we transitioned from coffee bar/retail wine store to wine bar. We dimmed the lights, changed our online radio to something cooler (Estelle), and turned it up a smidge. We sold a few cups of coffee, got prepared for the evening we all guessed would be slow, and had some time to chat.
The owner decided we should do a little tasting, said we need to bond a little. He said it was a full moon, that it felt like a weird night, that everyone was in a weird mood. I said I wasn't, and he said the moon had the opposite effect on me, that I would be normal tonight, for a change. It was the rain, I think, not the moon that set the tone. We tasted a white blend from France--"light and buttery up front, but with a spicy, dry finish." Are they just making this crap up? Maybe, but when I taste, I'm starting to be able to call it--but with the whites, I'm never sure.
I'm getting better with the reds though, I'm crazy about Petit Verdot, and Malbec blends now--big and juicy. And last night I did sell a red I love to one of my Saturday regulars. He came in just after a 12-hour flight from Tokyo visiting his fiance. We talked a lot about Japan, how baffling things are there, and how cool. He was our only customer for an hour or so, tasted the white with us, then I sold him the last bottle of the Vietti Italian Barbera, guaranteeing he would love it. I've got to quit doing that....After the taste and a cup of coffee he was fading from the jet lag--bet we'll see him on Saturday for his usual coffee fix.
At 6:30 the bartender started scrambling--she saw parking enforcement out the window. After assuring me I didn't need to move my car, that they'd never ticket us in the rain, she got a big fat ticket. Thankfully I didn't listen to her, remembered to move mine to a meter, and had six minutes left. Whew. Still I scrambled for quarters and dashed out in the rain to secure my spot until 7 pm--free parking time. This is why I usually don't drive....
Then a woman wrestled a stroller up the steps and inside. I recognized her from Saturday and Sunday, when she came in for coffee. She looked distressed and said loudly--"Does anyone in here have Alaska plates?" Of course that's me, and she said, almost tearfully that she had hit my car. She was shaking and upset--I said no big deal, we'll take care of it later, sit and relax--I don't get worked up about these things, and she was all right at least. I sneaked out to look at the car, and, no-kidding, she hit it EXACTLY where I scraped it a couple months ago. Not much further damage, although I haven't looked at it in the daylight yet. I said I'd give her a call, but probably, we'll just let it go, I already need to get it fixed....She settled down, met her friend for coffee and chatted for an hour or two. I got her info of course. Maybe I shouldn't have moved the car after all....
It did finally pick up a little, if only with regulars. In the back, a table of four women, moms, who are making that table their usual Thursday stop. Usually they head to dinner elsewhere, but tonight, they got a couple flatbreads and a cheese plate and stayed all night. They drank bottles and bottles of wine, then, when we practically had to kick them out, they asked for cigarettes, as if they could smoke them inside. I overheard their conversation about raising children, managing their images and elusive happiness. We clearly are a part of their coping time away from the men and kids, a place where they let loose a little....
As always on Thursday, the important food lady and her man sat at the bar. I haven't caught where she works yet, but I have learned that she is a chef and food connoisseur and we are apparently proud and happy to be one of her stops. Her man picks out their wines, typically they try three or four. They're happy to discuss the intricacies of the French bleu we serve in comparison to our domestic, and any other food or restaurant gossip going around. They're great but after all the recent discussions at work, I got a little nervous when I noticed her watching me, serving, opening and pouring wines....maybe I don't know what the hell I'm doing. The owner says soon we will get a big critic in, who could make or break us--we'll never get our first impression back. Anyway--they come in every Thursday and drop a lot of cash.
Our single guy came in, well, he's not really single, but might as well be, he never has his wife with him. He's a Wednesday regular, but decided to try Thursday after we spoke to him at the pinot tasting Tuesday night and talked up Thursday. (Lots of pinots Tuesday--seven actually, higher end. My favorite was from Monterey, or maybe I'm just loyal to whatever comes from closest to home). Anyway, he likes to chat with the bartender, get chummy with all of us, and tell stories. He recommended several restaurants to me, which I'm anxious to try. He hopes we don't get too popular, else he'll have to find somewhere else to go every week. Apparently it used to be the Irish pub down the street, every Wednesday, for years and years and years.
The bartender I work with each Thursday is an interesting person--down-to-earth, a little rough around the edges, in her late 40s. She has been through some hard things. She got some relief from her demons, she says, after she gave up drinking for 15 years (she's back now), left the Catholic church and "came out." She sculpted a very cool gargoyle named Balthazar and brought him in to watch over the bar. It doesn't matter that the owners keep hinting he doesn't belong, she's now got all the customers on his side, and I think he's staying. He is great, and represents how she affects the place--they both keep it from becoming too pretentious and perfect....Balthazar has such a pleasant look on his face, not a scary gargoyle at all. I can't help from petting his head when I'm dusting, he has a great feel. Anyway, she also finds a new name for people she likes--and you don't get to pick it. Our food girl is now named Roxy--not even close to her given name, but I have to say it suits her. Me? I'm Earthynia (Earth-In-EYE-uh). It's sticking--at least I'm answering to it.
I was fading at about 8 pm, and I would probably never stop or ask the kitchen to make me anything, but she decided to split a salad with me--amazing--I have to have food to keep working! It was the best spinach with fancy cheese and truffle toast. Truffle toast--incredible. We took turns quickly eating in the back hallway, there's no space for breaks and we don't really get to take them. Those laws about 30 minutes for six hours and breaks every two? They mean nothing. Six to eight hours on your feet, unless I'm managing, then I make sure everyone takes a break and has something to eat. Again, Norma Rae....
A new, young, beautiful couple came in to look at the menu--I greeted them and they decided to stay. They've just moved in a few blocks away, and I can tell they'll become regulars. The owner came out and hung with them quite awhile, having them sample some new meats and cheeses we have. They've both lived out west and know San Luis Obispo, although by his accent he's a Londoner. We welcomed them to the neighborhood, they are now part of our community.
Earlier, my young, Christian co-worker had dinner and some wine with his artsy girlfriend. He comes in every day, that's why he started working on Saturdays with us. Since he's going to come in anyway, the owner convinced him, he might as well help us out and offset the price of his coffee/wine consumption. He works for a big mega-church I once attended for a short time. He said the policy is they aren't to drink where they're likely to be seen by church members. Please--he's working in a wine store! He laughs it off, but I would have had a big dilemma about that in my church-going days--probably why church still works for him. Ah--he's young yet. We are destined for some great conversations he and I. The two of them are adorable of course...living their easy Christian lives where everything makes sense....
So we ended up being pretty busy. At the end of the night, when we sip a little wine while we finish up, people sometimes get a little philosophical, and someone might tell a story. Last night it was the owner. He told me about some DC clubs and restaurants I need to try, where the soul food is good and big people like him are comfortable. As always, he thanked us for our work, asked us our impressions of the night, and wanted to hear our feedback.
He says regulars won't be enough, but that we're lucky to have some already.
Inside, it was slow as we transitioned from coffee bar/retail wine store to wine bar. We dimmed the lights, changed our online radio to something cooler (Estelle), and turned it up a smidge. We sold a few cups of coffee, got prepared for the evening we all guessed would be slow, and had some time to chat.
The owner decided we should do a little tasting, said we need to bond a little. He said it was a full moon, that it felt like a weird night, that everyone was in a weird mood. I said I wasn't, and he said the moon had the opposite effect on me, that I would be normal tonight, for a change. It was the rain, I think, not the moon that set the tone. We tasted a white blend from France--"light and buttery up front, but with a spicy, dry finish." Are they just making this crap up? Maybe, but when I taste, I'm starting to be able to call it--but with the whites, I'm never sure.
I'm getting better with the reds though, I'm crazy about Petit Verdot, and Malbec blends now--big and juicy. And last night I did sell a red I love to one of my Saturday regulars. He came in just after a 12-hour flight from Tokyo visiting his fiance. We talked a lot about Japan, how baffling things are there, and how cool. He was our only customer for an hour or so, tasted the white with us, then I sold him the last bottle of the Vietti Italian Barbera, guaranteeing he would love it. I've got to quit doing that....After the taste and a cup of coffee he was fading from the jet lag--bet we'll see him on Saturday for his usual coffee fix.
At 6:30 the bartender started scrambling--she saw parking enforcement out the window. After assuring me I didn't need to move my car, that they'd never ticket us in the rain, she got a big fat ticket. Thankfully I didn't listen to her, remembered to move mine to a meter, and had six minutes left. Whew. Still I scrambled for quarters and dashed out in the rain to secure my spot until 7 pm--free parking time. This is why I usually don't drive....
Then a woman wrestled a stroller up the steps and inside. I recognized her from Saturday and Sunday, when she came in for coffee. She looked distressed and said loudly--"Does anyone in here have Alaska plates?" Of course that's me, and she said, almost tearfully that she had hit my car. She was shaking and upset--I said no big deal, we'll take care of it later, sit and relax--I don't get worked up about these things, and she was all right at least. I sneaked out to look at the car, and, no-kidding, she hit it EXACTLY where I scraped it a couple months ago. Not much further damage, although I haven't looked at it in the daylight yet. I said I'd give her a call, but probably, we'll just let it go, I already need to get it fixed....She settled down, met her friend for coffee and chatted for an hour or two. I got her info of course. Maybe I shouldn't have moved the car after all....
It did finally pick up a little, if only with regulars. In the back, a table of four women, moms, who are making that table their usual Thursday stop. Usually they head to dinner elsewhere, but tonight, they got a couple flatbreads and a cheese plate and stayed all night. They drank bottles and bottles of wine, then, when we practically had to kick them out, they asked for cigarettes, as if they could smoke them inside. I overheard their conversation about raising children, managing their images and elusive happiness. We clearly are a part of their coping time away from the men and kids, a place where they let loose a little....
As always on Thursday, the important food lady and her man sat at the bar. I haven't caught where she works yet, but I have learned that she is a chef and food connoisseur and we are apparently proud and happy to be one of her stops. Her man picks out their wines, typically they try three or four. They're happy to discuss the intricacies of the French bleu we serve in comparison to our domestic, and any other food or restaurant gossip going around. They're great but after all the recent discussions at work, I got a little nervous when I noticed her watching me, serving, opening and pouring wines....maybe I don't know what the hell I'm doing. The owner says soon we will get a big critic in, who could make or break us--we'll never get our first impression back. Anyway--they come in every Thursday and drop a lot of cash.
Our single guy came in, well, he's not really single, but might as well be, he never has his wife with him. He's a Wednesday regular, but decided to try Thursday after we spoke to him at the pinot tasting Tuesday night and talked up Thursday. (Lots of pinots Tuesday--seven actually, higher end. My favorite was from Monterey, or maybe I'm just loyal to whatever comes from closest to home). Anyway, he likes to chat with the bartender, get chummy with all of us, and tell stories. He recommended several restaurants to me, which I'm anxious to try. He hopes we don't get too popular, else he'll have to find somewhere else to go every week. Apparently it used to be the Irish pub down the street, every Wednesday, for years and years and years.
The bartender I work with each Thursday is an interesting person--down-to-earth, a little rough around the edges, in her late 40s. She has been through some hard things. She got some relief from her demons, she says, after she gave up drinking for 15 years (she's back now), left the Catholic church and "came out." She sculpted a very cool gargoyle named Balthazar and brought him in to watch over the bar. It doesn't matter that the owners keep hinting he doesn't belong, she's now got all the customers on his side, and I think he's staying. He is great, and represents how she affects the place--they both keep it from becoming too pretentious and perfect....Balthazar has such a pleasant look on his face, not a scary gargoyle at all. I can't help from petting his head when I'm dusting, he has a great feel. Anyway, she also finds a new name for people she likes--and you don't get to pick it. Our food girl is now named Roxy--not even close to her given name, but I have to say it suits her. Me? I'm Earthynia (Earth-In-EYE-uh). It's sticking--at least I'm answering to it.
I was fading at about 8 pm, and I would probably never stop or ask the kitchen to make me anything, but she decided to split a salad with me--amazing--I have to have food to keep working! It was the best spinach with fancy cheese and truffle toast. Truffle toast--incredible. We took turns quickly eating in the back hallway, there's no space for breaks and we don't really get to take them. Those laws about 30 minutes for six hours and breaks every two? They mean nothing. Six to eight hours on your feet, unless I'm managing, then I make sure everyone takes a break and has something to eat. Again, Norma Rae....
A new, young, beautiful couple came in to look at the menu--I greeted them and they decided to stay. They've just moved in a few blocks away, and I can tell they'll become regulars. The owner came out and hung with them quite awhile, having them sample some new meats and cheeses we have. They've both lived out west and know San Luis Obispo, although by his accent he's a Londoner. We welcomed them to the neighborhood, they are now part of our community.
Earlier, my young, Christian co-worker had dinner and some wine with his artsy girlfriend. He comes in every day, that's why he started working on Saturdays with us. Since he's going to come in anyway, the owner convinced him, he might as well help us out and offset the price of his coffee/wine consumption. He works for a big mega-church I once attended for a short time. He said the policy is they aren't to drink where they're likely to be seen by church members. Please--he's working in a wine store! He laughs it off, but I would have had a big dilemma about that in my church-going days--probably why church still works for him. Ah--he's young yet. We are destined for some great conversations he and I. The two of them are adorable of course...living their easy Christian lives where everything makes sense....
So we ended up being pretty busy. At the end of the night, when we sip a little wine while we finish up, people sometimes get a little philosophical, and someone might tell a story. Last night it was the owner. He told me about some DC clubs and restaurants I need to try, where the soul food is good and big people like him are comfortable. As always, he thanked us for our work, asked us our impressions of the night, and wanted to hear our feedback.
He says regulars won't be enough, but that we're lucky to have some already.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
The Road
I feel like I am at a dead end in every area of my life....except with writing I guess.
Plenty of blocks, and potholes, but no dead end.
Here, supposedly, I get to decide everything, and no one can stop me--except me. It doesn't feel like that, but I have nowhere else to go.
Maybe it's supposed to be that way.
Maybe that's the only way to get where I'm going.
Maybe it's by design.
Maybe I'll start making great time.
Or, maybe it's all just hard.
Maybe instead of flying down this road, I'm meant to trudge.
Seems that way.
Plenty of blocks, and potholes, but no dead end.
Here, supposedly, I get to decide everything, and no one can stop me--except me. It doesn't feel like that, but I have nowhere else to go.
Maybe it's supposed to be that way.
Maybe that's the only way to get where I'm going.
Maybe it's by design.
Maybe I'll start making great time.
Or, maybe it's all just hard.
Maybe instead of flying down this road, I'm meant to trudge.
Seems that way.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Squashed!
Chalk one up for the restaurant professionals....I got rolled.
But, I was heard and I did get some concessions--and some for the people I manage. All part of the experience I suppose....
Now, time to reassess my goals and expectations there.
But, I was heard and I did get some concessions--and some for the people I manage. All part of the experience I suppose....
Now, time to reassess my goals and expectations there.
Power
God knows I don't want to become the standard loud, unattractively opinionated woman in her 40s talking about power, but...is that it?
Is that what this--my mid-life crisis with religion, relationships and work--is about? Power?
Power--my current definition? The ability, the strength, to really live life fully realizing it's full of pain. I need to feel empowered and to do that I need to express myself about it--maybe that's my base need--expression, and beyond that, I need to be heard. I can write or talk myself blue in the face, but it goes only so far unless someone hears it and kind of gets it.
And maybe that's the empowering part, the part that says I'm at least half-right. That's the part that soothes the rash, dulls the ache and tends the sucking chest wound of need I apparently have. So yes, I want someone to see it, hear it, get it. Why would I want anyone to know my need? Why would I write about it here? Isn't it kind of stupid to be so vulnerable? Shouldn't I put a band-aid on that wound--cover it up for God's sake?
It's not that I think anyone can fix it--that's for sure. It's just truth, me being honest about where I'm at. Maybe someone else will admit it, that they feel it too, the pain, the shit of it all, then I can settle down, feel it and know I'm not crazy looking at all these people who say life is phenomenal all the time. I need to take life in, process it, not just endure it but allow myself to be thrown--yes, thrown--by pain as well as by joy.
Why do we think we're powerful or "smart" when we know what to expect and then are prepared, having adjusted our expectations? Is that kind of control "power?" We assume it's better to be prepared, to not get thrown, than to go through a painful experience. We try not to let anything get to us, we brace ourselves and think ahead, preparing for every possible disappointment, settling for the lowest denomination of feeling so the pain won't affect us. And we do it alone. That's being "smart." Well what if that's an illusion? What if we're actually more empowered when we feel, reel and let ourselves get hurt by life? Of course we're battered, but we promise to get back up, as hard as that is, and to keep living. At least we'll know what it feels like, this life.
So I'd rather not be so clever, or alone. I'd rather get rolled, taken advantage of and worse, disappointed, and other people will know it. Yes, I'll feel low, but there, knowing, learning, feeling the real truth, I know I'll have more real knowledge and, maybe power, than when I'm smartly steeling myself--not feeling, not learning anything except that I was right, yet again, to expect things to be so hard.
Is that what this--my mid-life crisis with religion, relationships and work--is about? Power?
Power--my current definition? The ability, the strength, to really live life fully realizing it's full of pain. I need to feel empowered and to do that I need to express myself about it--maybe that's my base need--expression, and beyond that, I need to be heard. I can write or talk myself blue in the face, but it goes only so far unless someone hears it and kind of gets it.
And maybe that's the empowering part, the part that says I'm at least half-right. That's the part that soothes the rash, dulls the ache and tends the sucking chest wound of need I apparently have. So yes, I want someone to see it, hear it, get it. Why would I want anyone to know my need? Why would I write about it here? Isn't it kind of stupid to be so vulnerable? Shouldn't I put a band-aid on that wound--cover it up for God's sake?
It's not that I think anyone can fix it--that's for sure. It's just truth, me being honest about where I'm at. Maybe someone else will admit it, that they feel it too, the pain, the shit of it all, then I can settle down, feel it and know I'm not crazy looking at all these people who say life is phenomenal all the time. I need to take life in, process it, not just endure it but allow myself to be thrown--yes, thrown--by pain as well as by joy.
Why do we think we're powerful or "smart" when we know what to expect and then are prepared, having adjusted our expectations? Is that kind of control "power?" We assume it's better to be prepared, to not get thrown, than to go through a painful experience. We try not to let anything get to us, we brace ourselves and think ahead, preparing for every possible disappointment, settling for the lowest denomination of feeling so the pain won't affect us. And we do it alone. That's being "smart." Well what if that's an illusion? What if we're actually more empowered when we feel, reel and let ourselves get hurt by life? Of course we're battered, but we promise to get back up, as hard as that is, and to keep living. At least we'll know what it feels like, this life.
So I'd rather not be so clever, or alone. I'd rather get rolled, taken advantage of and worse, disappointed, and other people will know it. Yes, I'll feel low, but there, knowing, learning, feeling the real truth, I know I'll have more real knowledge and, maybe power, than when I'm smartly steeling myself--not feeling, not learning anything except that I was right, yet again, to expect things to be so hard.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Street Smarts
I broke the code.
It's taken me all these weeks to figure it out, but I now know why I didn't get that job at the cool speakeasy. I didn't get the job because I am not a proud, self-important, restaurant professional. I went in there interested in the concept of the place and willing to learn anything and work hard, but I didn't use the right language, didn't have the right credentials, and didn't flaunt them. I am not, by trade, a restaurant person, and they figured it out right away. I didn't speak the language, so to them, I didn't even deserve the promised call-back after the interview.
Serving, apparently, isn't as easy as you think. Somehow, you need years of training, and you need to be able to work into conversation constantly that you've worked at a famous restaurant, preferably with a famous chef. I walked into this industry thinking hard work and a steep learning curve were enough to make it, but I was wrong--if that were true, then that would undermine the credentials of all the servers who are making it seem like it takes more. Do they have some secret skills I am not aware of?
Yes. Passing themselves off as the only ones able to do the job, getting hard working people to believe in and support their supposed vaulted position, and constantly name-dropping. Now I am all about people striving for excellence in their jobs--no matter what the job is--and taking pride in it. It is one of the first things that wowed me about a couple of these restaurant people--that they took it so seriously. One of them taught me a lot on my first day at my coffee shop/wine bar. After espousing all the famous chefs he'd worked for in all the major US cities (I was supposed to be recognizing all the names), he dove through the trash to find a spoon a customer had accidentally thrown away. This impressed me, because it showed, I thought, that we all jump in and do whatever needs to be done. Only partly true. They only do side work when they can't get someone else to do it. They're usually too important serving, then they give up only a tiny portion of their tips....
Fortunately the owner of the wine bar/coffee shop where I work is a creative, open-minded person with nothing for pretense and everything for helping his employees help him make the place the best it can be--he likes to hear all my insights and ideas after a long shift. So until now I've been really happy knowing I'm being appreciated and thinking I can learn about wine. I thought I might even move up, learn the business and grow a little.
Not so fast. The problem is, along with hiring me, and my ilk of people with degrees that for one reason or another want to do a shift or two at a cool place and learn a little something along with their normal jobs, he also hired some restaurant people. The clash has begun. Now I don't want to be Norma Rae, but I can't help representing my type with the owner against the strong culture of restaurant people in this city. I will probably go down, I am out of my element.
My point is that I think I can damn well pour and deliver a glass of wine or a plate of food as well as anyone. Yet, I'm either not supposed to do it and only let the restaurant people do it, or I'm going to do it when we're busy along with all the other side work they don't do, then only get a small percentage of what they get in tips. I had no idea. Of course they did, when they took their jobs as "bartender" or "server." I did not when I took my job of doing whatever the hell needed to be done--which is how all the jobs were described to me in the beginning.
So, I'm out to either change it or become less invested and lower my expectations. Maybe I won't work the wine bar, I'll just work coffee. I'll reduce my hours, quit working so hard, and quit giving my feedback to the owner--he probably doesn't need it anyway. Oh yeah, and I'll ask for a raise, which I'm pretty sure I'll get.
I'm meeting with him tomorrow. I've already approached him about some of these inequities--he got very concerned. He likes my attitude and work ethic, doesn't want me to lower my expectations, and he wants the place to be one where all of us can grow. I'm just not sure he can please us all, even though he's the type to listen and try to do the right thing. He's against the pretense, but I'm not sure he can change the culture of the service industry--too many divas.
Who would have thought the educated would be held down by service workers? Maybe there's justice there somewhere and I need to suck it up. The truth is, now I'm getting a real education. Now, finally, I'm learning street smarts.
I knew this job would be good for me.
It's taken me all these weeks to figure it out, but I now know why I didn't get that job at the cool speakeasy. I didn't get the job because I am not a proud, self-important, restaurant professional. I went in there interested in the concept of the place and willing to learn anything and work hard, but I didn't use the right language, didn't have the right credentials, and didn't flaunt them. I am not, by trade, a restaurant person, and they figured it out right away. I didn't speak the language, so to them, I didn't even deserve the promised call-back after the interview.
Serving, apparently, isn't as easy as you think. Somehow, you need years of training, and you need to be able to work into conversation constantly that you've worked at a famous restaurant, preferably with a famous chef. I walked into this industry thinking hard work and a steep learning curve were enough to make it, but I was wrong--if that were true, then that would undermine the credentials of all the servers who are making it seem like it takes more. Do they have some secret skills I am not aware of?
Yes. Passing themselves off as the only ones able to do the job, getting hard working people to believe in and support their supposed vaulted position, and constantly name-dropping. Now I am all about people striving for excellence in their jobs--no matter what the job is--and taking pride in it. It is one of the first things that wowed me about a couple of these restaurant people--that they took it so seriously. One of them taught me a lot on my first day at my coffee shop/wine bar. After espousing all the famous chefs he'd worked for in all the major US cities (I was supposed to be recognizing all the names), he dove through the trash to find a spoon a customer had accidentally thrown away. This impressed me, because it showed, I thought, that we all jump in and do whatever needs to be done. Only partly true. They only do side work when they can't get someone else to do it. They're usually too important serving, then they give up only a tiny portion of their tips....
Fortunately the owner of the wine bar/coffee shop where I work is a creative, open-minded person with nothing for pretense and everything for helping his employees help him make the place the best it can be--he likes to hear all my insights and ideas after a long shift. So until now I've been really happy knowing I'm being appreciated and thinking I can learn about wine. I thought I might even move up, learn the business and grow a little.
Not so fast. The problem is, along with hiring me, and my ilk of people with degrees that for one reason or another want to do a shift or two at a cool place and learn a little something along with their normal jobs, he also hired some restaurant people. The clash has begun. Now I don't want to be Norma Rae, but I can't help representing my type with the owner against the strong culture of restaurant people in this city. I will probably go down, I am out of my element.
My point is that I think I can damn well pour and deliver a glass of wine or a plate of food as well as anyone. Yet, I'm either not supposed to do it and only let the restaurant people do it, or I'm going to do it when we're busy along with all the other side work they don't do, then only get a small percentage of what they get in tips. I had no idea. Of course they did, when they took their jobs as "bartender" or "server." I did not when I took my job of doing whatever the hell needed to be done--which is how all the jobs were described to me in the beginning.
So, I'm out to either change it or become less invested and lower my expectations. Maybe I won't work the wine bar, I'll just work coffee. I'll reduce my hours, quit working so hard, and quit giving my feedback to the owner--he probably doesn't need it anyway. Oh yeah, and I'll ask for a raise, which I'm pretty sure I'll get.
I'm meeting with him tomorrow. I've already approached him about some of these inequities--he got very concerned. He likes my attitude and work ethic, doesn't want me to lower my expectations, and he wants the place to be one where all of us can grow. I'm just not sure he can please us all, even though he's the type to listen and try to do the right thing. He's against the pretense, but I'm not sure he can change the culture of the service industry--too many divas.
Who would have thought the educated would be held down by service workers? Maybe there's justice there somewhere and I need to suck it up. The truth is, now I'm getting a real education. Now, finally, I'm learning street smarts.
I knew this job would be good for me.
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