Wherein I mention Canadians and try not to make Canadian jokes

Work today was not lucrative for me.
Business was slow, and I got all the Canadians at my tables. I did get one denizen from Erie who hung out for an hour and a half, sent me on random trips for bread, asked for free bleu cheese crumbles on her salad that doesn't come with bleu cheese, and gave me a $2.38 tip, thereby making even the Canadians seem generous. We did have a nice chat, though.
Actually, in the Canadians' defense, servers in Canada make minimum wage, so many Canadians probably do not realize gratuity isn't included in the check in America, and therefore tip only according to the norm in Canada.

The only thing everybody agrees is cool about Canada. 

The story that makes today semi-worthwhile, though, is a monetary interaction I had with one gentleman from Canada.
This man had a very sweet daughter who seemed slightly embarrassed by her father's lack of gentility throughout the meal and made sure to thank me excessively for things and tell me her meal was very good.
Anyway, I'd given the man his check and went to pick it up while his daughter was in the restroom. He'd given me two twenty dollar bills and, as I realized when I got to the computer, a Canadian dime. Figuring he just hadn't noticed, I went back to the table.

"Excuse me," I said. "I'm sorry; this is a Canadian dime."

The man stared at me for a minute.

"You mean you don't take them?" he said.

"Uh. No," I said, thinking he was joking around--the first sign of good humour I'd yet seen in him.

"What; you don't take Canadian money here?" he asked.

"No," I said. "This isn't Canada."

"Well, I realize that!" he said, and made an exasperated noise. "I've seen Canadian money all over the place here!"

"Probably because the people didn't notice it was Canadian when they took it," I said.

He fished around in his pockets and came up with a quarter. "I hope this is enough." He handed it to me.

"Thanks," I said, and went back to the computer. I returned with his change. He took it without grace and then commented, "the Canadian dollar is worth more than yours, I hope you realize."

"Yes, sir," I said, and left him to deal with himself for the rest of his life.

Inclusion necessary.

For some reason this moment matters

I stood by the restaurant door, leaning against the greeter's desk, and dreamily staring past the decorative retro kitsch and into the recesses of my mind.

The door banged into itself gently, sucked against its frame by a pressure change in the entryway outside. I straightened up and waited for the door to open. It was flung wide to admit an old man on crutches. He handled them well and shifted through the door before it had a chance to close and bang into his heels. 

"Hello!" I said. 

"What's the special today?" he said, smiling and approaching the desk. 

"Soup, booze, or food?" I asked. 

"Hm, food. Prime rib. I've had that before. I think that's what I'll have," he said.

I picked up a menu and specials board, intending to show him to one of my tables down the hall in the larger, main room.

"Got anything handicap accessible?" he asked. "Can I have one of these?" He indicated a booth under a window to my right. 

"Certainly," I said, and led him there. 

Meanwhile another server saw that I'd sat the guest and went to find Megan, whose section our patron had chosen. 

My guest began to talk--of food, family, politics, money, jobs, his daughters, Japan. I watched and listened. His cap said Air Force, his manner hinted at WWII veteran, and I knew he was lonely. He looked me in the eyes, appreciated my company, and didn't patronize me; he didn't tell me that he was there "for a pretty face," and he asked me for directions.

I learned that his wife died last year, his daughters live in Seattle and had just been up to visit him. From what I gathered, they'd just left earlier that day after seeing him through an appointment at UPMC. 

There was finally a lull in the conversation and I invited Megan over--she'd been hanging out by the greeter's desk, waiting for us to be done. She was peeved, but I couldn't have abandoned the man, and Megan could have come and joined us quite easily. I wished the man had been at one of my tables.

A while later I saw he was finishing up and had a bag with two take-home boxes in it. Given the crutches I knew he'd have some difficulty carrying the bag out. It would not be an insurmountable problem, but not particularly easy, either. I was overcome by uncertainty and pity. Have you ever felt like you absolutely must do something--everything is driving you to do it, and it's a good thing--but you're not sure it's appropriate, given your circumstances? That was me, wandering through the dining rooms and kitchen, wringing my hands and dogging my manager's steps. Finally I pulled myself together and asked my manager if I could carry the bag out for the old man--not knowing the policy on employees leaving the restaurant while on their shift. Doug is a very comfortable sort of manager--cheerful and encouraging, laid-back and honest. He is easy to approach.

"Oh, yeah, of course. Definitely do that," he said.

So I did. I walked with my Air Force vet out to his truck, gave him directions, and wished him good day. I watched him drive away, and then walked back into the restaurant. 

Merry October, Justin!

Somehow or other yesterday I discovered that Justin Bieber has a new song.
This wasn't really surprising in and of itself. But I enjoy Justin Bieber for his smooth, girly voice, catchy tunes, and brain-numbingly pleasant overall atmosphere that sometimes also includes wicked awesome fun dances.

Case in point. Just ignore the fact a 25 year old woman felt up his 16-year old self 

in the beginning and it's supposed to be sexy.

I recognize that most of the pleasure I derive from Justin Bieber music is completely guilty. I think I've got some evidence on my side with the dancing thing, but other than that, I apologize for existing. 

Key of Awesome will show me no mercy.

To return to the point, though, Justin Bieber has a new song. I listened to it, and several things occurred to me.

Nice haircut, P.S.

Firstly, this is a Christmas song and it came out on October 18th. I mean, yeah, we always get a freakishly early start on celebrating holidays, but that's for holidays like Valentines and Easter. They come around when we're sick of snow and not having any holidays, so we need more excuses to go buy consumables from the comfort food group and eat them for extended periods of time. 

We've still got Halloween and Thanksgiving between Bieber and Christmas, here, though.

Secondly, this song sounds like something off of my Jason Mraz/Colbie Callait/hipster/ukelele Pandora station. Usher isn't even rapping sweetly in the snowy trees. I like the sound, but it makes the fact Justin's still referring to Selena Gomez (I presume that's her, but don't know) as "Shawty" that much funnier. For the record, I wish I had a "Shawty" so I could call her that. As terms of endearment go, it's one I would adopt both because I am very white, and also because I don't remember where I was going with this. 

Thirdly, ignoring the usual trite "screw the world and normal, healthy social interactions, I've got a Shawty!" message, the video itself bothers me. It's the girl who seems to be guilting Justin into a withdrawl from the world. Granted, he gets to make out with her because of it, and far be it from me to disparage that, but still; he appears to kind of also want to hang with his folks and play in the snow. 

Through the entire video, if Justin's not paying complete attention to her, Shawty looks like she just dropped her soy latte and it's ruined her world. He's not playing in the winter snow, chillin' with his folks, or makin' a list because she'll cry if he does. My main question is why she can't do any of those things with him. Everybody could be happy!

Check out the scene at the outdoor cafe when the blonde comes up to chat with Justin. Granted, the whispering in the ear is a little unsettling for somebody with anything like a jealous disposition (not necessarily the creepy kind of jealous, though that would make it worse), but otherwise it looked like a pretty platonic meeting of old friends. And there's Shawty sulking over her latte, playing the victim, and refusing to join in. 

Blonde shows up a couple more times, but by the end you realize she's just a good-natured girl with another attractive boyfriend who happens to come across as a bit of a flirt with other guys because she's semi-clueless. There is no malicious intent, Shawty, we promise. In fact, your boyfriend has spent the entire 3 minutes and 11 seconds singing about how he wants to chill with you instead of doing anything vaguely related to Christmas with anybody else.

On the other hand, snow at night is perfectly beautiful in that really heart-wrenching way that makes me emo and needy, too. So maybe I shouldn't be so hard on her.

Equine Adventures

I had this past Saturday and Sunday off work and it was glorious weather, so I ended up driving four hours Friday night after work to go back to Marmon Valley for the weekend to work as a trail guide.
It was the best decision I could have made.

I rode through beautiful forest-paths with great friends, like Kate and her Malachi-pony.

And earned money doing it for public riders.

I got to see and ride my Rusty-pony.

 

He got his winter coat while I was gone and I barely recognized him.

This is what I'm used to his colouration being.

We love each other.

As a matter of fact, Saturday morning I walked into the stables where all the horses were milling around and a dark, hairy little guy came up to me and started rubbing his face on me and chewing on my clothes. It took me a moment to realize it was Rusty. He knows me better than I know him!

For those of you who are not horse people, this is all very boring, I know. I'll move on in a moment.

The only negative to my glorious weekend is that, as my brother warned, "feeding an addiction only makes it worse."

This is true.
And as wisdom for those of you with pony-crazed little girls and postage-stamp-sized backyards: the horse-craze might go away, but it might not. If it doesn't go away when they start wanting to paint their nails and get noticed by boys, then it probably never will go away. It'll actually just get worse. Even as they're getting out of training bras, when presented with the choice, a horse will probably hold their interest more than Orlando Bloom will.

Unless it's Orlando Bloom and a horse.

I speak from personal experience, here.

Regarding other things I want in life, I've decided that my goal for myself is to submit one thing to either a magazine, newspaper, blog, or online once a week. It has to be somewhere that somebody else has to accept it for it to be published, so this post doesn't count. 

I have little control over whether or not anything will be accepted, but if I get into the habit of submitting things regularly, that puts me in the habit of writing things regularly and eventually it might pay off. 

Posting here is good practice, but submitting things elsewhere is still a daunting task. 

Here goes.

Guidelines More Than Actual Rules.

I realized I hadn't updated this in a while... or been particularly productive, writing-wise.

I have kept fairly busy, though. Training at work continues slowly and somewhat painfully. I've had two trainers for serving thus far. One of them I meshed very well with--her style of training is exactly what I need. She's laid-back and encouraging, but tells me when I've messed something up. More in a coincidental "oh, for future reference..." kind of way, though. Not a "the world will come crashing down and you'll be fired if you ever greet another table with 'how are you guys doing today?'" kind of way.
Also, she chucked me out and made me take over and wait tables basically by myself (she was usually there if I needed something, but didn't jump in unless I asked for help--sometimes she let me handle them without her there, though). This meant I was forced to self-correct and make mistakes, but realize them, fix them quickly, and develop a rapport with the customers.

Not exactly this kind of rapport, but it looks like fun.

Unfortunately, though, I only trained two days with her. The other lady training me is just as experienced as the first (perhaps more, I can't remember), and knows exactly how everything works. The problem is she has no imagination at all. She's been told the basic "company" way of doing things and can't comprehend that any other way might achieve the exact same results and perhaps even work better. A lot of times companies put out "company policies" of how to deal with certain situations, but they're more guidelines than actual rules. She doesn't see it that way, though. If she's a Christian, she's probably goes to a church that abides by the Regulative Principle (if the Bible doesn't specifically name something and say it's okay, then it's not). It's sort of a "better safe than sorry" approach. I think that sounds good in one way--wanting to obey. But it also doesn't allow for much power to grace.

Who else just read "more of a guideline than an actual rule" in Barbossa's voice?

I've dissected it and my main problem with her teaching style (besides making me want to cry any time I'm working a shift with her) is that she refuses to allow me to make any mistakes on my own. By which I mean, obviously I make mistakes, but she won't let me fix them myself, and straight-up told me that I was not allowed to ever go to a table without her because I don't know all the answers and it is unacceptable for me to tell the customer "I don't know, let me find out."

This is stupid for a variety of reasons:

Firstly, even she doesn't know all the answers. For instance, sometimes somebody wants something prepared specially, and she has to go ask the chef if he can do that, because she doesn't know.
Secondly, a customer would prefer you to say "I don't know, let me find out" than tell them something incorrect because you didn't have the guts to tell the customer you don't know everything ever.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure we can do a side of Gaejang-guk with your fillet mignon; today is bring-your-new-puppy-to-work day at the American Grille."

Inside, a part of that waitress just died with dread, imagining how disappointed that guy on the right is going to be when he doesn't get his ki-balancing dog-stew.

Thirdly, this is possibly the crappiest advice you could ever give someone for life. It's a sure-fire way to create  a cowardly control-freak living in an attic eating nothing but bread and potatoes because it's pointless to try something else unless you know you'll succeed.

Unless your potatoes can look like this, first try, it's ridiculous to make the attempt. 

And believe me, I have my share of the cowardly control-freak myself, fighting its way to supremacy in my life. It sucks.

Anyhow, she knows a lot and is willing to take time to train me, so I'm thankful for that. Newbs can be pretty annoying, so kudos to her.

Sigh.