spilled milk

Sundays are slow. A day for books and easy meals, movies, and rain. I made macaroni-and-cheese from a box last night: a little garlic and olive oil in a pan, heated to allow the garlic to sweeten, shell shaped noodles, milk, the cheese packet, a little grated cheddar, a little sour cream to be sure that everything blends. I steam a bunch of kale on top of the noodles while they boil and it's a ten-minute meal until milk is spilled down the cabinets, into their drawers, on to the floor, under the edge of the stove.

I hear my mother's voice tell me not to cry over spilled milk as we sit in the dollar movie theatre.

I am eleven, maybe, or twelve, possibly I am ten. It is a big event for us to go to the movies. We drive ten miles north up I-5 to Medford, she must have had something to do there that afternoon. Twenty years is a long time to remember clearly.

The dollar movie theatre, the house of the second run, no longer on the blockbuster list, not eight dollar movies, dollar movies are for people who want to go but have to wait till the market weakens. I harbored a fear of being spotted there, miles away from home, by someone I knew or even a someone I didn't know, but was my age, that they would mock our poverty.

I got a small soda, which cost more than the price of admission. It was a sprite, I have never liked 7-up, but sprite is cold and clear and clean, it doesn't leave the taste of chalky vitamins in your mouth. I got real soda with cane sugar in it maybe twice a year. My mom was a real stickler for not allowing sugar in the house or in my mouth, so it was a big event. Soda at the movies is expensive and I felt the double pleasure of seeing a feature film and drinking a forbidden beverage slip through my hands, down my seat, and spill over the slippery floor.

Tears came. Not that I had spilled and was ashamed of the childish action. But that I had wasted my mother's money and my moment with her, that I had been clumsy and it had ruined my opportunity to forgot our poverty in the darkness of the dollar movie theatre.

"Don't cry over spilled milk," my mother said as I held my breath in my hot throat. If I could hold my breath long enough I could stop crying. I knew that. She bought my a new soda as easy as that and it tasted good on shame.

Easy come, easy go.

comestible

Sometimes I think in words and pictures that my brain cannot unwrap. They live inside the marrow of my skull looking to export themselves, but my fingers and eyes shift the meaning as they join the world of dense matter. No matter, they are fodder for my soul.

living it

I haven't sat down to write in one hundred hundred days. I don't know how long, not that it matters, not really.

I will now, though, sit here, and write. I believe that the moon must be in a house of communication as I am full of words and organizing and filling in small numbers in my checkbook ledger. My room is no better for it, still a rampant mess.

The blood bank called and needs blood, 14,000 units down nationally, and it's my duty as a citizen to be a hero and save a life. So I will take my bones and blood to the bank and they will jab my arm with a hollow needle while I sit pumping life into a small bag. Then I'll have a hot chocolate and a box of raisins. Raisins are high in iron, for those of you who are anemic.

Take that Sweden

This system just sucks. I am looking over my taxes, income, savings plan and realizing that I pay 34 percent taxes. This fucking blows. It is a little bit complicated, so let me explain. I have regular wages, which the state and feds happily take 22% of; and then I have my tips which are all taken as a deduction. The total of my claimed tips are used as a deduction from my over all pay. This is a horrible and terrible system that is trying to eat me heart, mind, and soul.
What's more my boss wants all of us to claim more of our tips, of which, for the record, there are none, so that she can cut us all smaller and smaller checks. This would all be fine and dandy, but, despite the new free spending administration, I have yet to see my tax dollars hard at work. And, since she already owns four businesses, three houses, and eight cars, I am less than inclined to create a false income so that she can continue to stimulate her economy.

Scamer Puffer

I got scammed at work today and that made me feel pretty shitty and not so hot. People, you suck, get a job, or at least go stick it to the man. Something's gotta give.

Same Old Song and Dance

So far, I have yet to get a new job, or win the lottery, but, there's a drawing to night, so come on big bucks.

On a brighter note, I have a job and did not have a heart attack this week, so life's aces.

On another bright, but somewhat dimmer, note, I have decided not to seek legal action against anyone and everyone who's ever been mean to me. Do not take this as a permanent measure to slack off on being good to me, this is just a temporary relaxation of my moral standards regarding the code for interpersonal behavior. I may, after all, decided at any moment to contact my attorney and really stir the pot.

Reading to Toddlers

I just applied for a new job. It would not involve food, beverages, or toddlers. Thrilling prospect.

Especially after last sunday when a three year old asked to feel my shirt. (Weird, I thought, a shirt fetishist at the age of three, hmm?)

"Mommy's shirt is nicer!" she said, just like that, matter of fact, no room for argument.
"Your mommy's not working." I said, crossing their name off the list of 15 people waiting to be seated.

Her parents apologized as their daughter outed them.

"It's fine, really." I said.

I seated them in someone else's section, and, sadly, because I am not a bigger person, let them squirm with the knowledge that they had somehow shamed the waitstaff.

Why I Don't Shop

I love shopping. Purchasing shoes, clothing, even basic life things like food and household supplies is a source of joy. I haven't shopped in months and I am blaming the recession. I am blaming everyone but myself, because I really do have a job and work normal hours and shouldn't have to find a whole other job just for my shopping budget.

So I have decided that instead of shopping I will just start pseudo-shopping. I will go to the grocery store and load my cart, then after the checker has nicely bagged my bananas and milk, I'll say, "Opps, I forgot my wallet!"

Or, I'll got to Saks and just touch shoes and hand-bags and silk scarfs.

And Powell's and read the whole book in the aisle (I can speed read so this shouldn't be a problem).

But best of all, I will go to out to eat and enjoy my meal and drink ten cups of coffee, but when they bring me my check I will be nowhere to be found.

Sounds like the life for me,
Your Breakfast Server

You're Cheap and Dirty

I am responding to this pod cast on NPR (recession etiquette).

After having read all of the comments that people have made, I have a few of my own:

1: Your tip is split like this: 20% to the busser and 15% to the cooks. Period. We all gotta eat.
1A: If you ate the food you tip for the pleasure of eating it. If you don't tip make it at home and leave the dishes for your wife.
2: Expecting that restaurants provided a living wage for their servers goes against the principals of our free market economy.
3: We, as the general public, decided that 20% was standard, this has to do with the high cost of living due to inflation.
4: I budget.
5: Times are tight for all of us, so save me the grief and either cough up or stay out; do it like me, stay home and eat burritos.
6: I am friendly to your children even though they're fussy.
7: Dining out is a privilege, not a right, so use your best manners and I'll use mine.
8: I can make up for the 2% decrease in tips, but not much more, because I also have student loans to pay back.
9: The longer you're cheap, the more fuel I have for fire.
10: To Insure Prompt Service.

Have a lovely day,
Love and kisses,
Your Am Server

Are You Serious?!? More Thoughts on Service

So that day when I brought you and sandwich and you looked at it and said "there's cheese on this!"

Do you remember that day? I do. I had been on a break enjoying some much deserved reprieve from the likely demands of high maintenance customers such as yourself. Well, when I had finished my plate of eggs, I washed my hands (see, hygiene!), grabbed the food waiting in the window and brought it to your table. I had never, ever, seen you before. I did not take your order, I had not brought you coffee and soymilk. You and I were strangers.

Back to the cheese, "There's cheese. On this."

I looked at your sandwich, which clearly had cheese on it, "Oh, I'll take care of that." So I went into the kitchen and said, "this grilled veggie sandwich has cheese on it, can you make me (a whole new one, from scratch, with all new ingredients and throw away the old one because we can't reserve food.) one without cheese?" And even though they were really busy, they did it 'cus I said please.

When I brought you your sandwich for the second time you said, "This isn't a garden burger." and I said, "No, it's a grilled veggie sandwich sans the cheese." Then you looked at me and said, "You know what, don't even bother, I can't eat this."

Well I walked over and threw that sandwich away for the second time so that your sorry vegan ass who doesn't want to hurt cute little animals and save the planet, just wasted two perfectly good meals. Then I started to cry. Because a stranger, you, just yelled at me in public. You yelled at me and I wasn't even your waitress. You are big and mean, and you know what just because you're vegan doesn't mean that you are doing your part to this world a better place.

Love and Kisses,
Your Breakfast Server