Would You Like Cheese With That?

What? You would like more? Free of charge? And you've had how many breadsticks?????

Day 1:
Hello! My name is [insert name here]. May I be your slave for the next hour and a half while you stuff your face full of food? May I run for you; dance for you; sing a song? Will you remember to tip me? Oh, just a dollar? Well, I guess it's better than nothing...

Ah, yes. The joys of working in a restaurant. It's great, you willingly become someone's bitch just for the hope (a fading mirage perhaps) that the person will like you enough to give you a little something extra [insert joke that's not really a joke about how this parallels being in a relationship with a woman...]. Serving can be fun. It pays the bills, and I don't like to complain about that. But...sometimes...just sometimes I have to come home and shower. Just to feel normal again. To wash the grime away. I wish the shower was just a physical cleansing, but it really acts as a symbolic cleansing too. Washing away the grime of dealing with a certain type of person. The type that feels entitled. They are entitled to be at the restaurant. They are entitled to have everything perfect. They are entitled to make you feel like any mistakes are solely the fault of others (in particular, you). They are entitled to not wait at all (regardless of how busy the server or the restaurant is). Please don't make the mistake in believing that I am promoting a lack of standards in the service industry. There should be standards. But some people just don't understand that they aren't the most important or sole entity in the universe. It is this type of person that makes me feel gross. I feel demeaned and degraded. Worthless. Just a drone.

I bring all this up tonight because today marked the first day in a ridiculous promotion that my restaurant runs every year. And it seems to bring in a very particular group of people. This promotion runs for the next few months, so I will attempt to document my thoughts at least once a week or so. I feel that, if I don't, I will surely go crazy (this is a joke. We all know that I lost my marbles a long time ago).

Note: Today, as I watched people consume more calories in a single sitting than I get in three days, I was sorely tempted to bring them a nutrition guide and explain that the meal they were currently eating was likely to cause a heart attack. (Oh! And a happy thought to give you the warm fuzzies! Last week, the paramedics had to rush to our restaurant and save a man's life. He had a real heart attack. At my table. He was alive when he left, so I hope that he lived through the night to tell his grandchildren the story)

We should post a similar sign in our restaurant

~The Piebald Penguin

Memoirs of an Insomniac: 11

Here I sit, the moment for wishing long past. I know not where this road goes, but I will follow it until the end. Street lights, car horns, warnings of danger and distractions from the mundane. My mind wanders like a lazy cloud. My desk bears the burden of empty cans and bottles, and my chair lacks padding, apparently. The window stays open these days, but my eyes seem closed to the obvious. Please let it not be so. Comfortable, I'm not. I can't be. I won't let myself be. I seek discomfort that I may know what it is to be without. My appetite ran away from me, although I don't spend as much money on food anymore. Both Goraxypox and I tried the cookies I made and found them lacking. But two score others thought they were amazing. How much better could they have been? People express disbelief or surprise when I do something that they can't do. It's a lack of application, I do believe. And yet, the cans and bottles still rest on my desk. Washed windows willingly wear wondrous woods waiting while wind wastes women. My body is sticky. So sticky. Sweat and grease and restaurant grossness. Do I like serving? I serve no matter what I do. I serve in life, and I will probably serve in death. Music comforts my soul, and water washes the grossness away. Until the next day. The next dawn. The next storm cloud, the next bump, the next week of work.

The Charge of the Light Brigade - Painting by Mike Western

This painting seems to fit.

Tired and confused in a world of wonders.
TPP

Memoirs of an Insomniac: 10

I was having a really bad day at work today. It's not that I was performing poorly (well, I was perhaps operating sub-optimally, but even so, I know that I am still better at my job than most people who work there), but I was troubled by everything tonight. What I mean is that it seemed that everything and everyone were out to get me and were hell-bent on getting on my nerves.

About halfway through my shift I stumbled upon the issue (rather, I stumbled upon what I perceived to be the issue, although my perception may or may not be accurate). The issue at hand is this: I miss my family. Now, those of you who know me will say, "Well, of course you miss your family, Piebald. You live more than 1500 miles away from them and have only seen them once in the last six months. You've probably been missing them for a while now." To which I reply that yes, I do miss my sisters and mother and father and brother and my niece and nephews and brother-in-laws. But this feeling was something else. Because I was yearning to be with the "family" of sorts that I have up here. There are three of us in our little family: Goraxypox, Sleeping Beauty, and myself. We may live in two separate homes, but we usually spend a fair amount of time together. However, this week, our schedules have been at odds. So, I come home from work late at night to a quiet house. Goraxypox leaves the hallway light on, when he goes to bed, so that I can see when I come through the door. Sleeping Beauty works in the mornings now, so she is also slumbering in the comfort and safety of her own home. Thus, I sit, staring at my computer screen, typing on a keyboard, waiting for my  laundry to finish, and missing my family.

I hope the hours of the night pass quickly; for I yearn to spend time with the people who make this world bearable.

~The Piebald Penguin

P.S. To anyone related to me by blood, I miss you all dearly as well and hope to see you all before the year ends!

Dinner Is Served

Ingredients for dinner for 2: $25

Linen tablecloth: $10

Candles + candle holders: $8

Using a cardboard box as a dinner table: $0

Enjoying a lovely evening with someone special: Priceless

If there's one thing I've learned in life, it's that the truly amazing parts of life don't happen because you spent a lot of money. People come into the restaurant I work at looking for a "romantic evening". We seat them as far away from other people as we can and they end up paying $70-80 for dinner plus the tip. And that's mostly because they are simply too lazy to put effort into a special evening at home. The food was just as good, the atmosphere was way better and there were candles. Real candles. I strongly encourage everyone to give this a try. Whether you have a kitchen table or not, improvise and run with it. :)

~TPP

If I Were to Die Tonight...

...how long would it take for anyone to notice? My mind frequently wrestles with this question. Not that I feel like I'm in that much danger of randomly dying, so, to make it a more palatable discussion, let's rephrase the question and say: If I were to disappear tonight, who would notice? The obvious answer is that, in all reality, very few people would notice. My mom calls me on occasion, so she would probably think it's odd that I'm not returning her calls. I would give it about 3 weeks before she started to think that something fishy had happened. My employer would notice that I was missing in a day or so. I don't miss very many shifts, and certainly not without communicating first. But, ultimately, work would go on, and it would be no more than a brief inconvenience in their lives. I would be fired and forgotten about as quickly as the thought crossed her mind. Goraxypox would probably notice after a couple of days because he's my roommate, and even though he doesn't spend that much time outside the confines of his own room, I think he would eventually find it odd that I wasn't home. Sleeping Beauty would probably notice the soonest, if I didn't return text messages and phone calls.

Now, I'm not about to disappear or test my hypotheses; it just strikes as being an interesting topic because it brings forth the idea of importance. How important am I? Can I even determine my importance to people based on who would miss me? Perhaps someone at work would notice right away, someone whose life won't be affected by the removal of mine. But do the observation skills of another render me important? I am not typically someone who needs to feel important to others because I know that I am important to a select few and that is enough for me.

~TPP

A Typical Day

Art by Susan Swan

Thoughts swirl around my head like fireflies in the fading light of the evening sky. The cursor on my text message blinks, reminding me that I still haven't finished my thought. I glance at the screen and then stare off into nothingness. There is so much to say. Too much to say. Too much that can't be said or shouldn't be said.

I wrote the previous paragraph a number of months ago, but I didn't post it. I feel it still aptly describes my attempt to blog last night. I ended up writing thoughts down and posting them...and then deleting the post almost immediately because I didn't like it. I have found it to be increasingly difficult to post on my blog these days. And then I look back and remember the days when I was blogging almost non-stop. And I wonder: am I in a better place now than I was then? Was the blog simply a tool that I used to help endure the many stresses that comprised the last semester of college? If so, what should I do with my blog now? Now that it is unnecessary. Do I delete everything? Wiping away months of my life. Gone forever. Or do I leave it be, as a testament to challenges overcome? 

~TPP

Moods and More

Happiness is just one piece of French toast away. It's true. French toast, orange juice, and blueberry syrup. It's simple. It's easy. It's not even that unhealthy for you. It turns frowns upside down (I really abhor this cliche) and makes the sunshine superfluous. But is it the tasty toast that tints the world in happiness? Or is it the effort that was put into creating it? Oh, it didn't require that much effort, to be sure. There were no herculean feats performed. An hour of preparing and cooking and then the tasty toast pieces are popped into my mouth and there are smiles all around the apartment. So...do I have a point? Other than to blabber about the delicious delicacy that was breakfast today? Yes.

My point is this: Maybe you can't cook; or write; or dance; or whatever it is that you don't think you can do. Maybe you can. The actual finished product can be more than what it is if you simply put effort into it. Conscious thought. I do like the following idiom: The devil is in the details. It's true. If you put time and effort into the little things, then you will enjoy life more.

Pardon my French...toast.

 Seriously...who doesn't like French toast?? If you don't like it, leave a comment below so that I can never ever talk to you again. (just kidding. I will just be forced to change your mind for you)

~The Piebald Penguin