Monday, December 14, 2009
My co-worker at the Local Grocery was talking to me about germs. Tom is almost sixty, though he looks about forty-five to me. He's funny and nice, and one of the few people that I think I actually relate to there. I mean, there are plenty of nice people at the LG, but not very many that I would actually allow in my house, or say, have a beer with.
A lot of people have been getting sick lately, and there has been a big push for extra sanitation, which I appreciate.
"If you ever need to use this phone," he said, picking up the receiver, "you can wipe it down with this stuff." He had a spray bottle with disinfectant in it which he sprayed directly onto the mouthpiece.
I explained to him that while I am not necessarily a dyed in the wool germophobe, I do tend to wipe down the handles in the bathroom with hand sanitizer every time I use it.
"Yeah, my wife and I are both a little nutty about germs," he responded, and bent to pick up a piece of cheddar that had fallen to the floor. He popped it in his mouth and wished me a good day.
A lot of people have been getting sick lately, and there has been a big push for extra sanitation, which I appreciate.
"If you ever need to use this phone," he said, picking up the receiver, "you can wipe it down with this stuff." He had a spray bottle with disinfectant in it which he sprayed directly onto the mouthpiece.
I explained to him that while I am not necessarily a dyed in the wool germophobe, I do tend to wipe down the handles in the bathroom with hand sanitizer every time I use it.
"Yeah, my wife and I are both a little nutty about germs," he responded, and bent to pick up a piece of cheddar that had fallen to the floor. He popped it in his mouth and wished me a good day.
Saturday, December 05, 2009
"What's your favorite?" asked the woman, looking over the dessert menu.
"I'm a big fan of the pot du creme," I answered, pronouncing the first word Poe as I had been taught by chef.
"Well, I think I'll pronounce it like the French would, and I'll have the pot du creme," said the woman's friend, with an extra emphasis on the t.
I'll be sure and tell the French chef that his French mother taught him the wrong pronunciation of that French word, I thought. What I actually said, after a pause that was just long enough to let the other three ladies' discomfort register in their brains so that they wouldn't bring the troll back again, was
"Well okay then. Anyone else?" I had plastered on the kind of big, fake smile that one needs in order to survive in the service industry. They all ordered with the kind of pleading looks on their faces that one wears when one is hoping that you don't spit in their desserts, too.
"I'm a big fan of the pot du creme," I answered, pronouncing the first word Poe as I had been taught by chef.
"Well, I think I'll pronounce it like the French would, and I'll have the pot du creme," said the woman's friend, with an extra emphasis on the t.
I'll be sure and tell the French chef that his French mother taught him the wrong pronunciation of that French word, I thought. What I actually said, after a pause that was just long enough to let the other three ladies' discomfort register in their brains so that they wouldn't bring the troll back again, was
"Well okay then. Anyone else?" I had plastered on the kind of big, fake smile that one needs in order to survive in the service industry. They all ordered with the kind of pleading looks on their faces that one wears when one is hoping that you don't spit in their desserts, too.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Notes To Self
I was cleaning out my "writing/sewing" desk today (the bunny ears are due to the fact that I neither write nor sew at that desk, and it sits there and mocks me insolently while I waste hours and hours on the internets) and I cam across a number of scraps of paper, napkins, old receipts, ticket stubs, and the like. I am certain that I have mentioned this habit before, but I'm too lazy to look up an instance of it and link, so I'll just say that often (especially while bartending) I have thoughts or overhear conversations or phrases that I feel the need to jot down for later use, either in a blog post or a scene in the forthcoming Book/TV Show/Movie that I hope to some day sit down and write. Some of these things are universal to all bartending jobs, and made me laugh and think about how many times this has happened to me recently. An example of this is a piece of napkin that reads:
"Thanks, I appreciate it." Yeah, I can tell because YOU KEEP SAYING THAT.
It is difficult to italicize on a bev nap. It is also difficult to remember exactly what the person looked like that prompted this particular Note To Self, because his behavior has been rep[eated by so many people as to render him one of a faceless mass. I do remember that the guy was buying drinks, taking back all of his change without tipping, and very earnestly telling me how much he appreciated my service. As if somehow I could tell my landlord how much I was appreciated at my job and he would decide to forgo my rent.
There are other notes which are very specific to a place or a band or a situation. Some of these make me nostalgic, and others make me really happy to have changed jobs. Like this:
What kind of night? Look no further than the ladies' room.
Cheap perfume smell + empty airplane bottles of flavored rum = rednecks.
Puke and broken glass and empty pints of cheap vodka = Sorostitutes.
Graffiti + puke + empty whiskey bottles = punk rock show.
Haze of patchouli + pot smoke = goddamned hippies.
The Local Restaurant may not be glamorous, but I never have to deal with vomit. (*knock wood*)
"Thanks, I appreciate it." Yeah, I can tell because YOU KEEP SAYING THAT.
It is difficult to italicize on a bev nap. It is also difficult to remember exactly what the person looked like that prompted this particular Note To Self, because his behavior has been rep[eated by so many people as to render him one of a faceless mass. I do remember that the guy was buying drinks, taking back all of his change without tipping, and very earnestly telling me how much he appreciated my service. As if somehow I could tell my landlord how much I was appreciated at my job and he would decide to forgo my rent.
There are other notes which are very specific to a place or a band or a situation. Some of these make me nostalgic, and others make me really happy to have changed jobs. Like this:
What kind of night? Look no further than the ladies' room.
Cheap perfume smell + empty airplane bottles of flavored rum = rednecks.
Puke and broken glass and empty pints of cheap vodka = Sorostitutes.
Graffiti + puke + empty whiskey bottles = punk rock show.
Haze of patchouli + pot smoke = goddamned hippies.
The Local Restaurant may not be glamorous, but I never have to deal with vomit. (*knock wood*)
Sunday, November 29, 2009
West Coast Karen was telling Sven about her break.
"I have to go out. I'm watching a dog for somebody and I have to go take him out."
She then launched into a long story about how she started back at a pet-sitting service, and how this was her first job, watching a geriatric dog for some people who were out of town for the holiday weekend. The dog was very high maintenance because it had a lot of health problems and therefore a lot of medications, one of which was apparently left unmarked in a bowl at dog level, right next to his food. West Coast Karen apparently fed the dog several pills, thinking that they were treats, and then somehow mentioned it to the dog's owner via a phone call (I didn't hear the details because I was busy trying my best not to listen because that's what I do when West Coast Karen is talking). The owner then proceeded (justifiably, I think)to freak out, spewing forth expletives and "You killed my dog" and the like, to which WCK responded
"I'm getting the sense that you're angry here, and I think we just need to move on."
She was completely serious. The owner then instructed her to squirt hydrogen peroxide into the dog's mouth in order to induce vomiting, which she did. The dog vomited, and up until at least the last time she had checked in, was still breathing. But WCK, who purportedly has an advanced degree in psychology,was convinced that she had done nothing wrong.
"I mean, the bowl wasn't marked, and everything else was marked, you know?" she was telling Sven, who simply nodded. I was staring determinedly into the large wheel of clothbound cheddar I was cutting. Please don't bring me into this please please please please I thought, whistling as if I was hearing none of her story.
"I think she just felt guilty because obviously it was her fault."
"Probably so," responded Sven, without a hint of sarcasm.
There was a resounding sproing as the cheese wire broke in the middle of my cheddar wheel.
"I have to go out. I'm watching a dog for somebody and I have to go take him out."
She then launched into a long story about how she started back at a pet-sitting service, and how this was her first job, watching a geriatric dog for some people who were out of town for the holiday weekend. The dog was very high maintenance because it had a lot of health problems and therefore a lot of medications, one of which was apparently left unmarked in a bowl at dog level, right next to his food. West Coast Karen apparently fed the dog several pills, thinking that they were treats, and then somehow mentioned it to the dog's owner via a phone call (I didn't hear the details because I was busy trying my best not to listen because that's what I do when West Coast Karen is talking). The owner then proceeded (justifiably, I think)to freak out, spewing forth expletives and "You killed my dog" and the like, to which WCK responded
"I'm getting the sense that you're angry here, and I think we just need to move on."
She was completely serious. The owner then instructed her to squirt hydrogen peroxide into the dog's mouth in order to induce vomiting, which she did. The dog vomited, and up until at least the last time she had checked in, was still breathing. But WCK, who purportedly has an advanced degree in psychology,was convinced that she had done nothing wrong.
"I mean, the bowl wasn't marked, and everything else was marked, you know?" she was telling Sven, who simply nodded. I was staring determinedly into the large wheel of clothbound cheddar I was cutting. Please don't bring me into this please please please please I thought, whistling as if I was hearing none of her story.
"I think she just felt guilty because obviously it was her fault."
"Probably so," responded Sven, without a hint of sarcasm.
There was a resounding sproing as the cheese wire broke in the middle of my cheddar wheel.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Can anybody please tell me how to require verification for comments? I'm getting spam now, and there is a comment that I can't delete. Irritating!
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
So I'm driving to the Local Restaurant the other day, right around what could loosely be called rush hour. And as I get into an intersection downtown on Main Street in my booming metropolis, the light turns yellow, and the cars in front of me come to a rather abrupt halt, leaving me in that weird position where I'm too far into the intersection to stop, but not far enough that it looks like I should actually be allowed to go. When I looked to me left, at the traffic that would be coming toward me momentarily, I saw that the first vehicle in line was a horse-drawn carriage. Okay, so I'm going to go, because I'm fairly certain that those folks are not in a hurry or they would have chosen another mode of transport.
Traffic in front of me started moving again just as the light turned red, and I scooted through with nary a scowl from the other drivers. Whew. Next, I found a parking space almost directly across the street from the LR, which is fantastic because I am usually the last person out of there and it is usually quite late and quite dark at that time, and not having to walk very far by myself to my car is a plus. I pulled quickly into the space and started rummaging around for a quarter to put in the parking meter.
Emerging from the car, I was passed by the aforementioned horse and carriage, which turned out to be piloted by a pair of bedreadlocked hippies and adorned with a sign that read "Blah Blah Blah Farms, Somewhere in VT. Rides $$" I thought to myself that rush hour in the middle of the week was a bad time to be cruising around downtown, because not only were they unlikely to find anybody out looking for a relaxing ride, but also they were in the middle of a whole lot of traffic, holding things up and being a nuisance to other drivers. Not fostering a lot of goodwill, and generally not good business. As I said- hippies.
I immediately forgot about them and made my way back down the block to the crosswalk. I crossed the street and turned back toward the Local restaurant, strolling along with my head somewhere else (praying that a certain regular customer *cough* Town Drunk *cough* was not going to be in his usual seat at my bar) until I was brought back to the present by a loud bang and shouting. I looked up to the next intersection (about 100 feet away) to see Hippie #1 picking himself up off the ground, the cart, having come loose, flying sideways into the side street, and Hippie #2, dangling from the reigns, shouting at the horses to stop. The two horses had broken loose and turned 180 degrees, and were running in terror, dragging the metal (in front of and behind them) that should have held the whole thing together. They plowed directly into a parked car before coming to a stop almost in front of the LR. I was standing with my mouth open, totally in shock, next to another pedestrian (who, as it happened, also looked to be on her way to work at a restaurant). We both seemed to repeat the words "holy shit" about fifteen times before regaining enough sense to move forward and see if we could help.
"Do you want us to call anyone?" I asked Hippie #2 from a safe distance. He was holding both horses now, and trying to calm them.
"No, that's alright."
"Is anybody hurt?"
"No, nobody's hurt," he replied, after a cursory once-over of the horses. Hippie #1 was approaching from the other direction. Traffic was moving around the abandoned carriage as if nothing had happened.
The other Restaurant Girl and I turned and started back down the sidewalk.
"That was weird," she said, finally exhaling.
"Yeah- pretty fucking scary," I replied, turning into the front door of the LR.
I never did see if anything happened to the car.
Traffic in front of me started moving again just as the light turned red, and I scooted through with nary a scowl from the other drivers. Whew. Next, I found a parking space almost directly across the street from the LR, which is fantastic because I am usually the last person out of there and it is usually quite late and quite dark at that time, and not having to walk very far by myself to my car is a plus. I pulled quickly into the space and started rummaging around for a quarter to put in the parking meter.
Emerging from the car, I was passed by the aforementioned horse and carriage, which turned out to be piloted by a pair of bedreadlocked hippies and adorned with a sign that read "Blah Blah Blah Farms, Somewhere in VT. Rides $$" I thought to myself that rush hour in the middle of the week was a bad time to be cruising around downtown, because not only were they unlikely to find anybody out looking for a relaxing ride, but also they were in the middle of a whole lot of traffic, holding things up and being a nuisance to other drivers. Not fostering a lot of goodwill, and generally not good business. As I said- hippies.
I immediately forgot about them and made my way back down the block to the crosswalk. I crossed the street and turned back toward the Local restaurant, strolling along with my head somewhere else (praying that a certain regular customer *cough* Town Drunk *cough* was not going to be in his usual seat at my bar) until I was brought back to the present by a loud bang and shouting. I looked up to the next intersection (about 100 feet away) to see Hippie #1 picking himself up off the ground, the cart, having come loose, flying sideways into the side street, and Hippie #2, dangling from the reigns, shouting at the horses to stop. The two horses had broken loose and turned 180 degrees, and were running in terror, dragging the metal (in front of and behind them) that should have held the whole thing together. They plowed directly into a parked car before coming to a stop almost in front of the LR. I was standing with my mouth open, totally in shock, next to another pedestrian (who, as it happened, also looked to be on her way to work at a restaurant). We both seemed to repeat the words "holy shit" about fifteen times before regaining enough sense to move forward and see if we could help.
"Do you want us to call anyone?" I asked Hippie #2 from a safe distance. He was holding both horses now, and trying to calm them.
"No, that's alright."
"Is anybody hurt?"
"No, nobody's hurt," he replied, after a cursory once-over of the horses. Hippie #1 was approaching from the other direction. Traffic was moving around the abandoned carriage as if nothing had happened.
The other Restaurant Girl and I turned and started back down the sidewalk.
"That was weird," she said, finally exhaling.
"Yeah- pretty fucking scary," I replied, turning into the front door of the LR.
I never did see if anything happened to the car.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
A woman walked up while I was stocking cheese at the LG today.
"You have a lot of cheese here," she said.
"Yes we do," I replied, smiling since assuming that she was having trouble choosing.
"Lotsa Cancer," she said in an admonishing tone. She disappeared down the dairy aisle before I could even process the remark.
I've decided I need to start writing down the wisdom that our customers share with me.
Also, I need to start quoting the hippie parents I encounter on a daily basis here in The Green Mountain State.
"Sage, hold Willow's hand. Sage, I need you to stop ramming that wine stack with the cart. Sage, I need you to listen. Sage... Sage..."
Today's was "Cypress, come to papa."
Glad I have a day off tomorrow.
"You have a lot of cheese here," she said.
"Yes we do," I replied, smiling since assuming that she was having trouble choosing.
"Lotsa Cancer," she said in an admonishing tone. She disappeared down the dairy aisle before I could even process the remark.
I've decided I need to start writing down the wisdom that our customers share with me.
Also, I need to start quoting the hippie parents I encounter on a daily basis here in The Green Mountain State.
"Sage, hold Willow's hand. Sage, I need you to stop ramming that wine stack with the cart. Sage, I need you to listen. Sage... Sage..."
Today's was "Cypress, come to papa."
Glad I have a day off tomorrow.
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