Utils in Bat Country

Train Tales

Riddle me this - politeness vs independence.

Occasionally, I'll take the 6pm train and there's a conductor who waits at the bottom of the platform steps and holds his hand up so any of us climbing down can make use of the extra help. Since I get off the train most every other day without extra help, I typically don't make use of it.

I always smile and say have a goodnight but I feel like I'm being rude. I took the hand one time and it was just odd. Awkward since I'm used to using the hand rail and strange since typically getting a hand down or up is from someone you're used to holding hands with.

But what to do. Take the hand?

Just keep swimming

Friday night and I'm trying to keep my eyes open.  Not because I'm out on some fabulous adventure but because it's my last night in the nest, such as it is.  Am up in NJ at my aunt and uncle's house (only an hour and a half away, yay!) hanging out with them for a couple of days.  Dad flew out of PHL so we were going to be in the area regardless.

Contrary to what I thought, I didn't sob when we dropped him off, just sniffled.  But then my uncle was all snap outta it, goober, which made me laugh.  We shall see how hard I have to grip the steering wheel when I head back down to Bmore tomorrow.

My addled brain has been coming up with truly terrible puns and metaphors all week and my latest is that I'm operating like a shark.  If I stop moving, I'll die.  As Dorrie says, just keep swimming.  If I keep swimming and moving, I won't be able to focus on the enormity of what begins on Monday.

Towards that end, I went with aj and up to their gym and did a zumba class with them.  That hour alone was worth all the hassle and uncertainty about moving.  Hifreakinglarious.  The instructor was some insane woo girl who said she didn't show moves, just follow along and do what feels good.  So there was wild, uncontrolled arm flailings everywhere.

Since I've danced, I picked most of it up pretty quickly but counting off the 8 counts.  Though I did trip over my own feet and get a case of the church giggles when I realized I had been staring intently at the instructors butt and muttering step, two three four, back, two three four, pivot around three four for an entire track. But girlfriend was doing some Beyonce level booty moves and if I just stared hard enough perhaps I could gain some groove by osmosis (I couldn't).

And when things get rough next week, I can pull up the mental image of UP shaking it to some belly dance moves to cheer me.

(Everything begins Monday - if you could spare some good thoughts and pixie dust for me, it'd be much appreciated)

The best diets I've tried

Why, hello world!

Blah blah, haven't been here in a minute, blah.

I've been on two 'diets' in the last couple of years which have resulted in the rapid loss of significant amounts of weight, even while eating whatever I feel like. And I thought I'd share them with you, while I have a second before another class comes marching in to my student teaching life.

1. Divorce. Best diet ever.

My ex did not eat healthy stuff. We would try for a while, but really his heart was set on boxed mac and cheese combined with a pound of ground beef and whatever other cheese was lying around the house. Screw veggies, more lard! And, because when you're married to someone you pick up some of their habits, I ate like that. I was never fat, but looking back at pictures, you can see how round I was. I was a size 12, and pushing out of that rapidly. (Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of people comfortable in size 12 or larger, and I am not judging you for it. However, I'm 5'4", and that extra weight was never something I was comfortable with.)

ANYWAY. When we split up, even while I was still in Michigan, I started dropping weight. Not in an unhealthy way, but I stopped eating like it was going out of style, and started walking our dogs about five miles a day. I felt really good, and the sizes melted off. When I got to DC the trend continued, since I was cooking for myself, walking to work every day, etc. I went from pushing 150 to about 125 in a matter of months. Got myself down to a size 2, and there I was, happy and several sizes smaller.

2. Student teaching and working full time.

Oh yes, you want a good diet? Go 15 hours a day, minimum, at least five days a week. Add another 10 hour day (on Sunday she rested is NOT the case), and you've not got a lot of time to eat extra stuff. When The Guy and I were dating (did I mention on here that we're not anymore? No big drama, we just didn't work out, but we're still good, good friends) I put on a few pounds, like you do when you're content and going out to dinner a lot.  I never moved out of my size 2 jeans, but they were getting a little snug in the thigh and muffin top area.

Insert student teaching. And the inability to eat more than what I can order from work, or buy at the grocery store and consume in roughly 45 minute total. Which has meant boxed mac and cheese, but when you add veggie sausages instead of a pound of ground beef, the end result is significant different.

I wasn't paying any attention to my weight, mind you. I haven't had time to. And frankly, laundry has been low on my list of things to do. So I was wearing the same pants over and over and over. And you know how pants stretch out when you wear them? Yeah, that.

I did laundry a few days ago, and put on my very favorite ever pair of Gap jeans (why yes, I DID pay $75 for a pair of jeans, and they WERE worth it, thankyouverymuch). And I thought maybe my washer/dryer weren't doing a good job, because these jeans have been SNUG for a while. Not quite muffin topping me, but close. And my thighs have never been small, so the close fit was to be expected.

I put my belt on earlier this week, cinched it to it's normal place, and there was a slight fold in my jeans. There is room in my size 2 Gap jeans. I jumped on the scale last night, after work and full of beer, and I'm thisclose to the weight I was just out of high school. A small concerted effort and I could get there.

People at work have been noticing, and saying stuff. And I swear I'm not anorexic! I AM eating, some days way too much and other days really junky food, but I am eating! It's just that I'm on my feet at least six hours a day, and if I'm teaching classes it's even more. I have no time for snacks or laziness (and it's killing me, I LOVE being lazy).

I've also cemented my venture into vegetarianism. Rubbing oil on a raw turkey on Thanksgiving convinced me that not eating meat is right for me. If I'm disgusted touching something, I probably shouldn't be putting it in my mouth. My entire digestive system is much happier with me since I stopped eating meat, and obviously the rest of me is OK with it. So there that is.

 

When I was a freshman in high school I weighed 115 pounds. I've not been lower than that my entire adult life, nor do I strive to get back to that now. But if I could get to 120 or a little under, I could dig it.

But I'm not buying any new pants until student teaching is over and I know whether or not this baggy pant thing is just a phase, or if I'm pushing towards a new jean size.

 

 

 

 

Also, I'm done student teaching in a week and a half. Expect a long post then, a reflection of what I've gone through and whatnot shortly thereafter. Until then, you probably won't read me again.

There must be some kind of way out of here

I wish I physically had time in my day to write a real blog post about what I’ve been doing. I wish I could cobble together more than an hour of me-time in a day to ponder what I’ve been going through, to talk about what I’ve been experiencing. Instead, I’ll throw this online after 15 minutes (max) of writing, and then jump in my car and go to work.

Here’s a typical day for me, if you can call any day typical. I wake up between 6:30 and 6:45. I hit snooze once, twice if it’s been a rough night of sleep (and they’re getting rougher). I roll out of bed, do all the bathroom things one needs to get done in order to go to a ‘real’ job. I make hot water for coffee or tea once I’m downstairs, simultaneously letting the dogs outside and feeding them. I make either coffee or tea, gather my wallet and cell phone, throw them in a bag, pick a pair of shoes, and head out the door. At the latest it is 7:45.

I drive, not far, to the school where I’m doing my student teaching. A little prep time, and the bell rings at 8:15.

I wish I had more time to talk about these kids. They’re pretty normal, most of them. But they’re in middle school, which makes all otherwise well-adjusted kids either amazing or terrible. At least, that’s been my experience over the last few weeks. There are kids who are so smart it’s unbelievable. Some of those kids are the worst behaved children you’ve ever seen. And some of the kids who will struggle their whole lives…are the most patient and amazing children you’ve ever seen. And everyone in between. I’ve got kids I’ve seen in the hallways having a blast with their friends who shut down completely once they’re in the classroom. I’ve seen the kids who wander the halls alone between classes answer more questions in a class period than anyone else. And everyone in between. I teach neither special education nor do I teach gifted and talented kids, and yet I think I’ve seen the best and worst my school has to offer already.

But wait. There’s more.

Because once my school day is done, I get to go home.

For about an hour.

We don’t teach the last two classes of the day, but whether or not I get to slide home depends on what kind of prep work needs to get done for the next day’s classes. When things need to get done, I do them. If not, I slip out a little early.

School is out officially at 3:10. From there, I go home and let the dogs out. Perhaps, on good days, I grab something to eat for myself. Otherwise, I get back in the car at either 3:30 or 5:00, depending on my work schedule. And I drive to the bar. Most nights I’m there until 10:30 at the earliest. Sundays I host trivia, so I’m there late. Mondays is late night sushi, so I’m there late. Thursdays we serve until 11 and it gets busy late. So I’m there late.

I have a class that starts next week, so I won’t work on Tuesdays, but I’ll come home from class with homework, I’m sure. Although who knows when I’ll be able to do it. I have Saturdays off from school and work, and I’ve been doing my best to not look at my computer, and really just lay low for a full day. It’s more difficult than it might seem.

Although I’m working this crazy schedule, my supervisor can’t understand why I haven’t gotten back to them about a meeting we’re supposed to set up. Nevermind the fact that I barely check my email anymore, for lack of time and blocks on the school computers. Or the fact that I’m going hard 85 hours a week. Let me calm down and email you back. Or the fact that people keep asking if I HAVE to work. I don’t know, do you have $20,000 I can live off for the next six months? No? Well, then, FUCK YES I HAVE TO WORK. DON’T MOST PEOPLE?!

So yeah. That’s what I’ve been doing, and what I will be doing from now until January. And then? I think I’ll sleep for about a week.

Of Mice and Yellowtail

1) The veggie thing got derailed last night, due to some yellowtail tuna. It was late at work, and I thought I ordered the vegetarian version of a roll I love. The sushi chef made the fish version, and since I was whipped (I love working doubles, but they kick my ass) the protein in the fish sounded GREAT. So I ate it. I'm back on the wagon today, though. But I could easily see myself going pescatarian instead of vegetarian.

2) Mickey's little brother decided to make an appearance over the weekend. Not to be deterred from him pacifist ways, The Guy set the live-trap for Little Mickey Friday night. And actually caught the little bastard right away. We took him to live near his touring relative Saturday afternoon. Now I watch the dogs to see if there are any more of Mickey's relatives hanging about. But I sure hope not.

3) Just to toot my own horn a little, the restaurant got a complimentary email about me last night/this morning, that one of the managers was thoughtful enough to forward to me. And I must say, it's really kind of awesome to get something like that. It's so rare that people take the time to say the nice things about places they visit, that to be told you're good at what you're doing...well, it makes busting your ass for 13 hours on a Sunday seem a little more worthwhile. Yeah, I get paid, but it's nice to know I'm doing it 'right'.

Affirmation

On the whole, I find myself a pretty positive person. Although the last year has been beyond difficult in numerous senses, part self-imposed and part just through sheer bad luck, I've been as upbeat as I could be for the majority of it. But there are times when people just suck, and it gets a little old.

Monday nights routinely see me and one other server busting our asses for half-priced, late night sushi. For the first few weeks we got SCREWED on tips, as people were tipping 10% of the SALE PRICE of the food. Meaning we were making 5% tips rather than 15-20% (btw, 20% is the norm now, folks, stop doing the math and getting to 15, 18, or whatever. 20%. We make $3/hour, help us out a little.) Further, we had to tip out the sushi chefs as well as the bar on the full price of food and drink, so we were making even less. Blah.

We instituted an auto-gratuity on the original price of the sushi not long after that, at 18%, which has worked out well. It's at-your-discretion, so when we know folks coming in we tend not to apply the gratuity. I have a couple of regulars who go to school with me, and oft times I won't apply the grat to their table. I also sit with them if I can and chat about school, and whatever.

This week we got hammered for our late night, filling up around 10:15 in a way we weren't anticipating. I had a couple of large parties, and the other server had several smaller ones. That's fine, and we were just doing our thing. However, the other server got fucked in the not-fun way with a table of four. She didn't auto-grat because they had been there forever and were really nice. And they left her nothing. Not one cent in a tip. ZERO.

It was bullshit, but what can you do.

I told my table of classmates about it.

When they were leaving, the girls asked me who the server was who got stiffed. I pointed her out, and said goodbye to the girls.

Less than 30 seconds later, the other server came over to me. "Here," she said, "your table left you this money."

"Nope," I said. "They left that for you."

On their way out the door, two undergraduates, who are both taking something like 18 credit hours this semester and are overwhelmed with stress, gave the other server $10 in cash, just because I told them she got stiffed on a tip.

My faith in humanity is reaffirmed yet again.

Dear Hipster...

On Monday nights, I serve sushi. We have a late night deal, whereby you can have half-price food from 10:30pm to 12:30am. I really dig this night, I’ve worked all but one since we opened. We play music really loud, people drink, I drink, and all is right with the world. And we get to auto-grat our tables, because people are shits about tipping. Auto-grat on the pre-sale price of the food. Take that, Mr. Cheap Ass Mofo.

There are a group of folk who come out every week, and they’ve turned into my regulars because the other server doesn’t want to deal with them. I do it, and it’s fine. They’re a little snide sometimes and often drink nothing more than water (lame), but that’s OK. They’re money goes in my pocket just the same as everyone else’s.

Monday nights I also have a habit of dancing around the bar while serving. We play decent music, and I jam out a little. I mean, for fuck sake, I’m a thiertysomething almost-PhD serving sushi to hipsters while wearing a tool belt as a waitress apron. I may as well dance, too.

This week, one of the kids at the aforementioned table asked me if there were any “embarrassing” videos of me dancing and serving food on youtube. Hmmm. I said there probably were embarrassing videos of me on youtube (I think there are some awful things from karaoke floating around in cyberspace) but I really didn’t care. He then said he was going to take some and post them. I told him to knock him elf out, if that’s really how he wanted to spend his time.

Obviously, this kid is making fun of me. And to that, I say this, in an open letter to Douchebag Hipster Straightedge Kid Who Doesn’t Tip Unless He’s Forced To.

Dear DHSKWDTUHFT,

I understand that you’re at an age where your parents, or really anyone older than yourself, still embarrass you in public if they act kinda dumb and enjoy themselves. Your early 20s can be a tough time, and since I’ve never seen you at the restaurant during normal business times, I have to assume you’re either broke or just a serious cheapass who only likes half-priced sushi. So, don’t worry. I get it. You’re at a very difficult crossroad in life. I don’t know if you’re in school or just finding your way, but no matter which is the case, I totally understand.

Therefore, I say this. Ten years from now, when you’re living the American Dream, I hope you think back fondly on the waitress whose been serving you for months now, but whose name you’ve never bothered to ask. I hope that, while you’re wearing your madras shorts and chasing your 2.5 children around your suburban home so that your wife can go out “with the girls” again, while you’re drinking Natural Lite in your backyard and wishing you could just go out and have a good time and dear god how did my life turn into something that I hate, you think back to me, the dancing sushi server and know that no matter where I am in life I’ll be having a good fucking time. Judge me all you want, because I already know what life you’re doomed to. Yeah, you’ll be making decent money and have a nice house and a nice car. But you’ll also be in debt up to your eyeballs, you’ll hate your wife (but stay with her for the kids), and more than likely have a beer fridge in either the basement or the garage so you can get away from it all. You’ll have that dead look in your eyes, and going out will mean the madras shorts plus a polo shirt and docksiders.

If, by some strange twist of fate, I should see you ten years hence, in that predicament, unhappy and sucking down light beer to ward off the ever growing beer gut you are acquiring…Yeah, I might just take a video of you and post it on youtube.

Love,

Tassie the Sushi Waitress (yeah, that’s my name)

Fun Work Phone Calls!

I work at a sushi restaurant, right? We have non-sushi foods, and non-traditional sushi (which is actually what we're famous/infamous for), but it's sushi nonetheless.

Sunday afternoon, our phone rang and I happened to be the person who answered.

Me: [Name of sushi place, the second word of which rhymes with mice and is a food associated with sushi]

Person: Hi. What kind of rice do you serve there?

Me: Ummm. We serve white rice. [In my defence, we have lots of people who come in asking for brown rice. We don't serve it, but they ask.]

Person: Yes, but what KIND of rice? [Herein, I had a momentary vision that I was talking to someone who was Really Very Serious about rice and/or sushi and/or Japanese culture.]

Me: White, sticky rice. The Japanese kind. You know, for sushi?

Person: You mean you're a sushi restaurant?

[AHA! Now my brain is working properly.]

Me: Yes, yes we are.

Idiot Person: Oh, well. Can you tell me what kind of food you serve?

Me: Um. Well. We serve sushi. You know, raw fish? And we have burgers, and sandwiches and noodle bowls.

Idiot: So you serve sushi?

Me: Yeah. We are a sushi restaurant.

Idiot: But what's on your menu?

Me: [Bashing my head onto the bar.] You know, our menu is up online. Perhaps you just want to look it up there. The address is [sushirestaurantaddress.com].

Idiot: Oh, OK. One more thing.

Me: Yes?

Idiot: Do you serve seafood?

Me: Nope. But thanks for calling.

*Click*

Two Dollars and Thirty Cents

Working in a restaurant was bound to lead to an evening of disappointment sooner or later, and mine was last earlier this week.

We have a half-off sushi night, which is great because we get people coming into the restaurant. But it can be bad for servers because folks either don't know or don't care that you're supposed to tip on the original price of a meal, and not the discounted price. I'm not doing less work just because you're paying less money.

There was a large party this week, and they came up as my table in our rotation. I thought this was great, as I had tables of two all night, and tips should be good. These folk weren't the easiest table, requiring a plethora of ordering food, and then a little hissy fit at the end because the computer failed to take $2.50 off their check at the end of the night.

For reasons surpassing explanation, I did not set the tab to an automatic gratuity, even though there were more than enough people at the table to do so with. I guess I thought (wrongly) that people would respond better to me being nice. Instead, not so much. When it was all said and done, they tipped me about 11% of the original tab. Which isn't horrible, but certainly isn't kind.

The kicker? Wasn't the argument over $2.50. Wasn't the crummy tip. It was this:

There were two guys paying with credit cards, and a bunch of cash. Once I added up everything they had given me, the table was $2.30 short. I went back to tell them, and they made me split it onto the two cards. That's right, I had to go back, rerun both credit cards for $1.15 each.

I don't know what kind of people these are, but I know this. If I were out with a bunch of people, and we owed a whopping $2.30 at the end of the night, I'd reach in my pocket, pull out $3 and be done with it. Never mind the server, or signing more credit card receipts. I simply have too much self respect to have anyone rerun a card to split less than $3. If you're that broke, don't go out to dinner at all.

I'm over getting a shitty tip. But if I see those people again (and a few of them are regulars at the bar) I will forever associate them with being some of the cheapest fuckers on the planet.

 

Excitement? And Whoppers.

Today is a day rife with excitement for me.

Or not.

Today is actually a day of running errands, which is the opposite of exciting. I have to go to the post office and the grocery store, and perhaps a liquor store (Maryland is one of those states where you have to buy beer, wine, and liquor in special stores, rather than the grocery store...Michigan really was doing SOMETHING right).

I'm cooking Thanksgiving dinner for my parents on Thursday. Which I am sure will turn into my mom helping me cook Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday, because I've never done it before, although I'm hopeful that my cooking abilities will aid me in being able to cook one bird and some potatoes. Since it's just the three of us (I have been dating a guy (!) here in Bmore*, and I was hopeful that he'd be in town for the holiday, but he has family commitments elsewhere for a good part of the week), I'm not worried about anything too fancy, although I will try my hand at a pie, which could result in disaster for all of us.

As for the Whoppers.

You know the malted milkball candies, Whoppers? I LOVE those, and could eat them all day. Or at least, I could a week ago.

On Saturday, the restaurant got off to a slow start, and one of the managers was eating Whoppers out of a huge bowl behind the bar. He mentioned wondering how many a person could fit in their mouth at a time, and because I am a fool/tool I told him to get a bunch and we'd see. Two handfuls later, I'm cramming malted milk candies into my mouth and trying not to giggle.

Now, there's a method to cramming food into one's mouth, wherein you chew things as you go. This was not the methodology I went with, as we were conducting a serious scientific experiment. Thus, I was attempting not to choke to death on a piece of candy, while counting how many I was holding in my cheeks like a demented chipmunk.

A Whopper is roughly the diameter of a quarter, so it wasn't like raisonettes or something equally small. And I managed to get 13 of those fuckers crammed in my jaws before the giggling and chances of choking were too high to continue.

Then I chewed them all up and ate them. Then I died.

Actually, there were more left on the bar, because the manager got way too many for me. And I just kept eating them.

And now I never want to see another Whopper again.