I am in the midst of moving back to the West despite protests and claims of "we'll never see you again" by my immediate family.
Currently, I am calling Burlington my place of residence, but it's not my home. Church Street and the environs are great, but this is the first time I've moved to a new city and felt absolutely no connection. The bitter cold that rushes off the towers of ice along the waters that make up Lake Champlain tears through me, and seeps into my bones. I'm told that one bad season makes-up for the remaining three; however, I don't need someone to tell me what I already know.
I am a Northwest girl. Plain and simple. I was born on the wrong coast; the Pacific Northwest with its geographic ingenuity intrigues me as it wraps its evergreens around me and the deep blue Pacific calls me to come back.
I can't explain it; however, I have to come to realize that home isn't necessarily where you were born or where you grew up. Home isn't where you hang your hat; home is where your heart and soul mingle peacefully with your mind. Home is where routine is anything but, and the simple act of getting the paper and sugar cookies from the bakery is something to look forward to.
Since I was a child, I've been restless. My wanderlust has taken me to many beautiful areas of this country, but I am grounded in one place. Of course, when I move back there, it won't be the same---so many things have changed; some for the better and some for the worse. My heart was broken and the pieces left no longer fit together seamlessly, but finding the glue to at least join them together again will seem more fitting in a place that knew me before I was born.
Moving away from family and friends doesn't mean you love them any less; in fact, I think it makes you love them even more because you appreciate them more and forget about the "little things" that cause petty arguments.
I have another journey ahead of me, and I hope it is the last. Within the next 6-8 months, I will drive more than 2,400 miles to Portland alone with just the memories of the route Sam and I took together to begin a time in our lives that was simply wonderful.
Eight years later, it will just be me and one of the three dogs we once shared. I'm sure I'll shed many tears stopping by the places we shared (the beef jerky place in Wyoming; the non-stop rush-hour traffic in Chicago; and the Portland skyline coming into view).
However, once I get there, I know I won't lose any more sleep knowing I'm going back home.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
A Tale of Two Undies
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Sure, this is the opening sentence to the classic "A Tale of Two Cities" by that magnificent writer, Charles Dickens, but it may as well be the words of a woman reminiscing about her period.
(Men, you may want to stop reading at this point, as this post is strictly about menstruation. Period. Or, if you care to learn more, let's press on...)
You see, women don't want to admit it, but as pre-pubescent girls some of us yearned for boobs and Maxi pads. When you got your period (not like getting a cold, of course) and when your grandmother grabbed your hands, held them up, and said, "Patty, she's developed," you knew you gained entrance into a secret club. A club little girls knew nothing of and little boys could not join.
Of course, there was nothing in the contract about the possibility of getting pregnant, the ruined Italian silk underwear because you forgot you were due a visit from Aunt Flow, or the myriad of symptoms we experience (but none of us experience equally).
All of that stuff aside, I am taking this post to speak my mind about a phenomena of the female mindset in relation to her delicate wear.
That is, the tale of two undies.
None of us will admit in it public. But all of us know, behind closed doors, a secret lurks in the top drawer of our dressers. That secret is the collection of the "good" underwear and the "bad" underwear.
Now, I'm not talking about the split-crotch, fire-engine red panties you wear for your partner (along with the zirconia-studded pasties behind the alumnae sweatshirt in Drawer 3) and the Granny panties you wear on your fat days.
I'm talking about the period panties ("bad" underwear) and the other panties ("good" underwear). The period panties are the ones you wear when you have your period (obviously). The good and bad panties are collectively referred to as the good (let's have sex...later after Grey's Anatomy), the bad (let's have sex...now, and don't keep me waiting, stud), and the bloody.
They may also have holes in them, be adorned with (insert cartoon character name) images, or have a few mystery spots (I won't even delve into that topic).
It's no coincidence the bad underwear are put in the corner. ;^)
The other panties comprise sexy panties, I-feel-fat-panties, go-to-the-gym-and-have-no-line-panties, cotton panties, silk panties, and panties panties. We don't need to talk about those because they're not as interesting.
Why do we subject ourselves to such bad underwear during a few days of the month? We know that if we're doing laundry at the laundromat (or even at home), we crumple those babies up so no one can see how truly deplorable they are. Heck, you offered them to the church for the clothing drive for women in third-world countries and they started a monthly collection to get YOUR sorry ass underwear. (And that wasn't the church ladies...it was the ladies in the third-world countries.)
Our partners ask us why they heck we "...keep those zebra undies with the hole in the ass?" Um, for the same reason you keep the boxers with the air conditioning in the crotch.
I'm telling you ladies, let's start a revolution. Let's wear sexy underwear (doesn't have to be split-crotch, you can get Victoria's Secret bikinis) during those days we don't feel so sexy. Heck, it doesn't even have to be during our periods.
I also propose "Wear sexy underwear every day."
Let's take better care of our bodies by showering more, keeping it high and tight, and practicing regular, ahem, changes.
So, tomorrow, reach into that back corner and toss those rags away. Pull-up a pair of Victoria's Secrets Angels and walk the walk with a little spring in your step and the knowledge you've got a sexy secret underneath your pants.
(Men, you may want to stop reading at this point, as this post is strictly about menstruation. Period. Or, if you care to learn more, let's press on...)
You see, women don't want to admit it, but as pre-pubescent girls some of us yearned for boobs and Maxi pads. When you got your period (not like getting a cold, of course) and when your grandmother grabbed your hands, held them up, and said, "Patty, she's developed," you knew you gained entrance into a secret club. A club little girls knew nothing of and little boys could not join.
Of course, there was nothing in the contract about the possibility of getting pregnant, the ruined Italian silk underwear because you forgot you were due a visit from Aunt Flow, or the myriad of symptoms we experience (but none of us experience equally).
All of that stuff aside, I am taking this post to speak my mind about a phenomena of the female mindset in relation to her delicate wear.
That is, the tale of two undies.
None of us will admit in it public. But all of us know, behind closed doors, a secret lurks in the top drawer of our dressers. That secret is the collection of the "good" underwear and the "bad" underwear.
Now, I'm not talking about the split-crotch, fire-engine red panties you wear for your partner (along with the zirconia-studded pasties behind the alumnae sweatshirt in Drawer 3) and the Granny panties you wear on your fat days.
I'm talking about the period panties ("bad" underwear) and the other panties ("good" underwear). The period panties are the ones you wear when you have your period (obviously). The good and bad panties are collectively referred to as the good (let's have sex...later after Grey's Anatomy), the bad (let's have sex...now, and don't keep me waiting, stud), and the bloody.
They may also have holes in them, be adorned with (insert cartoon character name) images, or have a few mystery spots (I won't even delve into that topic).
It's no coincidence the bad underwear are put in the corner. ;^)
The other panties comprise sexy panties, I-feel-fat-panties, go-to-the-gym-and-have-no-line-panties, cotton panties, silk panties, and panties panties. We don't need to talk about those because they're not as interesting.
Why do we subject ourselves to such bad underwear during a few days of the month? We know that if we're doing laundry at the laundromat (or even at home), we crumple those babies up so no one can see how truly deplorable they are. Heck, you offered them to the church for the clothing drive for women in third-world countries and they started a monthly collection to get YOUR sorry ass underwear. (And that wasn't the church ladies...it was the ladies in the third-world countries.)
Our partners ask us why they heck we "...keep those zebra undies with the hole in the ass?" Um, for the same reason you keep the boxers with the air conditioning in the crotch.
I'm telling you ladies, let's start a revolution. Let's wear sexy underwear (doesn't have to be split-crotch, you can get Victoria's Secret bikinis) during those days we don't feel so sexy. Heck, it doesn't even have to be during our periods.
I also propose "Wear sexy underwear every day."
Let's take better care of our bodies by showering more, keeping it high and tight, and practicing regular, ahem, changes.
So, tomorrow, reach into that back corner and toss those rags away. Pull-up a pair of Victoria's Secrets Angels and walk the walk with a little spring in your step and the knowledge you've got a sexy secret underneath your pants.
Friday, July 27, 2007
The Creative Clash
Recently, I had to prove to someone that, despite years working as a writer or editor for software companies that produced highly-technical software, I was actually creative.
I thought the evidence was in plain sight. For example, this blog. I'm not writing about motherboards, legislation, or e-commerce, but everyday topics that (for whatever reason) strike my fancy that day.
Besides the poems or editorials I wrote in college, or websites and logos I've designed, what other evidence is needed?
Perhaps I need to purchase "creative" clothing. Maybe, instead of the khakis and v-neck t-shirts, I need to break-out my old pair of Vans and don Ed Hardy (for you so-called creative writers, tell me why those last three words are my version of word play). Then I can head to my salon and ask for an asymmetrical haircut because nothing speaks, let alone sparks, creativity like a funky haircut. I should also hire a language coach to teach me how to talk slowly but with cool precision when discussing everything from Moby to Picasso to Mies Van Der Rohe.
Maybe writing is like living in Phillip Johnson's glass house---not always functional but what a stage it makes. That is, a person's writing ability is only functional until they present it a certain way. Perhaps a writer is only as good as the stage they set; the main character on the playbill dresses, acts, speaks, and writes in a certain way for a certain audience.
Then again, maybe I'm the ultimate creative person because I've spent the last seven years masquerading as a technical writer when all I want to do is write engaging, creative copy that makes people laugh, cry, and, most importantly, read and think.
The biggest challenge? Silencing the critics who've only seen the opening act and convincing those who haven't seen it to pay for the show.
I thought the evidence was in plain sight. For example, this blog. I'm not writing about motherboards, legislation, or e-commerce, but everyday topics that (for whatever reason) strike my fancy that day.
Besides the poems or editorials I wrote in college, or websites and logos I've designed, what other evidence is needed?
Perhaps I need to purchase "creative" clothing. Maybe, instead of the khakis and v-neck t-shirts, I need to break-out my old pair of Vans and don Ed Hardy (for you so-called creative writers, tell me why those last three words are my version of word play). Then I can head to my salon and ask for an asymmetrical haircut because nothing speaks, let alone sparks, creativity like a funky haircut. I should also hire a language coach to teach me how to talk slowly but with cool precision when discussing everything from Moby to Picasso to Mies Van Der Rohe.
Maybe writing is like living in Phillip Johnson's glass house---not always functional but what a stage it makes. That is, a person's writing ability is only functional until they present it a certain way. Perhaps a writer is only as good as the stage they set; the main character on the playbill dresses, acts, speaks, and writes in a certain way for a certain audience.
Then again, maybe I'm the ultimate creative person because I've spent the last seven years masquerading as a technical writer when all I want to do is write engaging, creative copy that makes people laugh, cry, and, most importantly, read and think.
The biggest challenge? Silencing the critics who've only seen the opening act and convincing those who haven't seen it to pay for the show.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Self-Checkout Lines for Control Freaks, Aisle 1
I absolutely love chatting with people; I believe everyone on this planet has something important to say. However, when I'm at the market, I have one thing in mind: get home as quickly as possible.
I'll admit it. I love self-checkout lines at grocery stores because conversation is kept to a minimum - the only time you really need to communicate with the clerk is when you've accidentally placed your purse on the scale.
The grocery store has become a labyrinth of liquids and solids. With my latest move, I've had to forget where the olive oil is in Wilsonville, OR to Latham, NY to where it is (now) at Albertson's in Bozeman, MT.
Of course, being in the software industry, I think about how technology could improve the shopper's experience. I recently read an article about carts that feature a hand-held scanner. As a shopper pulls down items they want from the shelf, they scan the item and place it in their cart. After piling in the cereal, sushi, wheat bread, peanut butter, steak, and vegetables, they can pay for their vittles using the shopping cart's system. (Does anyone find it hilarious that e-commerce uses a shopping cart for checkout and now virtual reality has become reality?)
Personally, I'd go for it because my personal bubble is continually being invaded at the self-checkout line. Apparently, most people were absent the day Emily Post told you not to handle other people's fruit. ;^P
Before you think technology hasn't invaded your town, check again. LEDs, LCDs, and touch pads might give the developers away (as well as Star Wars references in the code).
So, if the self-checkout line is full, just grab your light saber, I mean, scanner and defeat Darth Tater to make a mean meal that would make any Jedi proud (and full).
I'll admit it. I love self-checkout lines at grocery stores because conversation is kept to a minimum - the only time you really need to communicate with the clerk is when you've accidentally placed your purse on the scale.
The grocery store has become a labyrinth of liquids and solids. With my latest move, I've had to forget where the olive oil is in Wilsonville, OR to Latham, NY to where it is (now) at Albertson's in Bozeman, MT.
Of course, being in the software industry, I think about how technology could improve the shopper's experience. I recently read an article about carts that feature a hand-held scanner. As a shopper pulls down items they want from the shelf, they scan the item and place it in their cart. After piling in the cereal, sushi, wheat bread, peanut butter, steak, and vegetables, they can pay for their vittles using the shopping cart's system. (Does anyone find it hilarious that e-commerce uses a shopping cart for checkout and now virtual reality has become reality?)
Personally, I'd go for it because my personal bubble is continually being invaded at the self-checkout line. Apparently, most people were absent the day Emily Post told you not to handle other people's fruit. ;^P
Before you think technology hasn't invaded your town, check again. LEDs, LCDs, and touch pads might give the developers away (as well as Star Wars references in the code).
So, if the self-checkout line is full, just grab your light saber, I mean, scanner and defeat Darth Tater to make a mean meal that would make any Jedi proud (and full).
Blog, Blog, Baby...Vanilla
It's all about the blog, baby, so why am I stumped to write a title? I took a lame (and contrived) rap tune released in the 90s and threw it into a Cuisinart to get this pathetic pate of a paragraph.
I've been thinking about words and how language fits into my career. I'm a technical communicator but was never a language czar wearing a flak jacket with WEA (Word Enforcement Agency) on the back. I began my career as an editor and flourished because I knew how to let people find their voice and if they had been writing for years, I knew how to let that voice boom and pop as a funky fresh rhythm in the annals of the software company I worked at.
Perhaps that's why editing and editing with a knack for an easygoing, conversational flow has been my gig of choice (over starched documentation that, while grammatically correct, lacks the delicate balance---talk with the user; don't speak to the user). I started writing when I was quite young but graduated to editing the high school newspaper. In college, I loved science and technology and writing, so I picked Technical Communication. Plus, I admit, I am a member of the geek club with my membership card tucked quietly behind my old Pearl Jam tickets.
I won't lie to you...I notice typos in emails and on popular websites, such as CNN, but I'm not getting out the red pen anytime soon. The beauty of writing and editing is that you can learn how to improve your writing from more experienced writers and teach other, less experienced writers how to write better.
I guess this post is filler; cheese for the ravioli; heady plot for the washed-up daytime soap opera; and banal banter between two aging sportscasters looking to net a pullquote in the Post for the Spurs-Cavaliers game.
Keep reading...I'll try to keep it interesting and entertaining. And, just maybe, my smooth blogging will melt away any preconceived notions that a technical commmunicator can't be creative.
I've been thinking about words and how language fits into my career. I'm a technical communicator but was never a language czar wearing a flak jacket with WEA (Word Enforcement Agency) on the back. I began my career as an editor and flourished because I knew how to let people find their voice and if they had been writing for years, I knew how to let that voice boom and pop as a funky fresh rhythm in the annals of the software company I worked at.
Perhaps that's why editing and editing with a knack for an easygoing, conversational flow has been my gig of choice (over starched documentation that, while grammatically correct, lacks the delicate balance---talk with the user; don't speak to the user). I started writing when I was quite young but graduated to editing the high school newspaper. In college, I loved science and technology and writing, so I picked Technical Communication. Plus, I admit, I am a member of the geek club with my membership card tucked quietly behind my old Pearl Jam tickets.
I won't lie to you...I notice typos in emails and on popular websites, such as CNN, but I'm not getting out the red pen anytime soon. The beauty of writing and editing is that you can learn how to improve your writing from more experienced writers and teach other, less experienced writers how to write better.
I guess this post is filler; cheese for the ravioli; heady plot for the washed-up daytime soap opera; and banal banter between two aging sportscasters looking to net a pullquote in the Post for the Spurs-Cavaliers game.
Keep reading...I'll try to keep it interesting and entertaining. And, just maybe, my smooth blogging will melt away any preconceived notions that a technical commmunicator can't be creative.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
The World According to Carp
I live in the land of hunting and fishing folk. Dotted along 191, guide and fly shops are a welcome sign to those new to the area who find hunting fowl or catching fish a religious experience.
When in nature, I do think we do see God. So, I'm going to agree with them.
This posting is not about hunting, fishing, or God, although I've thought a lot about the latter lately. Now before you enter the URL of another website, let me finish...
Why do some life events cause people to "find God" when they've ignored God for the majority of their life? Whether it's marriage, the birth of a child, the loss of a job or business, the ending of a relationship, or not being able to find your keys when you're late for work, I have my suspicions when it comes to these new believers.
Let me back up a bit. I have no doubt that some people, when troubled in their lives, turn to God for support. However, when they turn to God because it's the status quo, I guess my cross begins to rub me the wrong way. For example, if two people are getting married and start attending church out of pressure from families, and then stop attending once the gold is on their fingers...I take issue with that. Or when children are baptized, but then no effort is made to take that child to church or teach them the Golden Rule...I take issue with that. Or, when a married person repeatedly cheats on their spouse or commits a crime but it's OK because they "found God" and now attend church.
Throughout my life, I've lost and found God many times. I used to think we're all hypocrites because we only call upon God when we need a favor. However, maybe the hypocrisy lies in what we attach to religion; more importantly, what we attach to organized religion. I do believe there is a higher power, but I don't believe that higher power wants us to ignore the rights of the oppressed, pay a tithe so my parish priest can drive the biggest and baddest Caddy, or constantly run to the confessional to absolve of us of a sin (mistake) we repeatedly make without remorse or lesson learned. Washing away the sins merely requires a shake of your hand in the Holy Water as you walk out of the church having professed your sins and prayed your penance.
I'm not perfect, but therein lies the beauty of the God. The big, kickass power that I talk to every night in casual conversation. Perhaps some people find religion to be a saving grace for saving face in a society where no one talks about religion but everyone talks about being religious. Perhaps others find religion to be a saving grace when they've run out of excuses for their bad behavior or weaknesses.
Whatever the case, I think (sometimes) you need to lose religion to find it again in order to understand its true meaning.
When in nature, I do think we do see God. So, I'm going to agree with them.
This posting is not about hunting, fishing, or God, although I've thought a lot about the latter lately. Now before you enter the URL of another website, let me finish...
Why do some life events cause people to "find God" when they've ignored God for the majority of their life? Whether it's marriage, the birth of a child, the loss of a job or business, the ending of a relationship, or not being able to find your keys when you're late for work, I have my suspicions when it comes to these new believers.
Let me back up a bit. I have no doubt that some people, when troubled in their lives, turn to God for support. However, when they turn to God because it's the status quo, I guess my cross begins to rub me the wrong way. For example, if two people are getting married and start attending church out of pressure from families, and then stop attending once the gold is on their fingers...I take issue with that. Or when children are baptized, but then no effort is made to take that child to church or teach them the Golden Rule...I take issue with that. Or, when a married person repeatedly cheats on their spouse or commits a crime but it's OK because they "found God" and now attend church.
Throughout my life, I've lost and found God many times. I used to think we're all hypocrites because we only call upon God when we need a favor. However, maybe the hypocrisy lies in what we attach to religion; more importantly, what we attach to organized religion. I do believe there is a higher power, but I don't believe that higher power wants us to ignore the rights of the oppressed, pay a tithe so my parish priest can drive the biggest and baddest Caddy, or constantly run to the confessional to absolve of us of a sin (mistake) we repeatedly make without remorse or lesson learned. Washing away the sins merely requires a shake of your hand in the Holy Water as you walk out of the church having professed your sins and prayed your penance.
I'm not perfect, but therein lies the beauty of the God. The big, kickass power that I talk to every night in casual conversation. Perhaps some people find religion to be a saving grace for saving face in a society where no one talks about religion but everyone talks about being religious. Perhaps others find religion to be a saving grace when they've run out of excuses for their bad behavior or weaknesses.
Whatever the case, I think (sometimes) you need to lose religion to find it again in order to understand its true meaning.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Perpetual Adolescent: I Want to Be a Toys R Us Kid
I was reading an article today about Cecil Castelluci. She's a writer who's broken new ground by stepping outside her genre to write and draw a graphic novel. The article said, "Cecil Castellucci acts more like a 15-year-old boy than a 37-year-old woman. And she makes no apologies."
'I love Ford Mustangs, my Fender guitar, Vertigo comics and my Apple computer,' says Castellucci in a rather appropriate girlish voice.
OK, the last time I checked, I have a 2006 Ford Mustang in my driveway, a Squier (Japanese Fender in my bedroom), enjoy cartoons and comics, and love my Mac mini my beloved man squeeze bought me.
Does that make me a 15-year-old boy instead of a 31-year-old woman? Last time I checked, the double-Ds were a dead giveaway to my feminine ways and wiles. And, last time I checked, monthly visits from Aunt Flow were clearly indicative of the ovary-inducing inconvenience we ladies like to call our period. End of sentence.
Once again, some idiot journalist feels the need to peg passions to a specific age group. However, I started to think about other things and wondered if I'd ever grow up. Or would I be stuck in Aisle 16 talking to Geoffrey from a foam Dora the Explorer couch.
Over the years, I've seen friends get married and have children. Over the years, my boyfriend and I have moved cross-country three times in pursuit of better career options. As I get older, I've begun to equate marriage and children with maturity.
I hate to say this, but some friends who have married immediately shed their passions for an amorphous blob of coupledom. As my boyfriend can attest, we are two big kids---who love cartoons and have no pangs of guilt when we purchase Fruity Pebbles with our Vitamin C and organic milk. We have no qualms about seeing a Saturday matinee where the main attraction is the latest Pixar picture.
Yet, on the flip side of the coin, both of us pursued our educations and now work full-time jobs. We do laundry, cook, clean, and pay bills and taxes.
I'm not sure why people feel an excuse is necessary when a "mature" person does "immature" things. What is the difference between being immature and mature? Where does the boundary for adolescence end and adulthood begin? I would never want to go back to high school; I love my thirties. But, I don't want to give up things I've always enjoyed because the number of candles on the cake far exceeds the "Recommended for Ages..." warning.
Nope, I'm going to have my cake and eat it, too.
Invasion of the Cankle Snatchers
As the sun glistens in the Gallatin Valley and suntanned children saunter down Main Street in their shorts while others feverishly pedal their bikes, I'm reminded of the summer season.
Across America, people are lugging Rubbermaid containers out of their attics and closets to unearth the Mother of All Summer Fashion Treasure: capri pants.
Call them clam diggers (where I'm from), pedal pushers, or highwaters if you're a pimply teen who's grown a foot in the last year.
Whatever name you bestow upon these beastly pants, count me out of the picture.
For some reason, I've never quite understood the fascination with cutting your legs off with a swatch of fabric to reveal a body part most women otherwise disdain.
Yes, ladies, the cankle. Part calf. Part ankle. A cankle is when the calf and ankle have no clear definition...there's literally (and clearly) a 1:1 ratio of calf and ankle. The cankle has its roots in ancient times (circa 20th century) and is culturally referenced in websites (ihatecapripants.com) and even a Seinfeld episode.
I'm not the proud owner of a pair of cankles nor am I size 0, but intentionally selecting a pair of pants that draws attention to cankles is not a badge of courage. It's a cry for mercy.
So, please men (yes, men have cankles and wear manpris---the masculine version of capris) and women of America, put away the Capris and buy shorts or pants.
Across America, people are lugging Rubbermaid containers out of their attics and closets to unearth the Mother of All Summer Fashion Treasure: capri pants.
Call them clam diggers (where I'm from), pedal pushers, or highwaters if you're a pimply teen who's grown a foot in the last year.
Whatever name you bestow upon these beastly pants, count me out of the picture.
For some reason, I've never quite understood the fascination with cutting your legs off with a swatch of fabric to reveal a body part most women otherwise disdain.
Yes, ladies, the cankle. Part calf. Part ankle. A cankle is when the calf and ankle have no clear definition...there's literally (and clearly) a 1:1 ratio of calf and ankle. The cankle has its roots in ancient times (circa 20th century) and is culturally referenced in websites (ihatecapripants.com) and even a Seinfeld episode.
I'm not the proud owner of a pair of cankles nor am I size 0, but intentionally selecting a pair of pants that draws attention to cankles is not a badge of courage. It's a cry for mercy.
So, please men (yes, men have cankles and wear manpris---the masculine version of capris) and women of America, put away the Capris and buy shorts or pants.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
A Little Tipsy
Some are clear. Others are colored. Some have colorful labels (401K Fund). Others lack imagination (Tips). Of course, I'm not talking about the bevy of bottles at the local bars in Bozeman, although some of those are clear or colored, and some do have colorful labels or ones that lack imagination.
Nope. I'm talking about the controversial tip jar. The tip jar is not as controversial as Roe v. Wade or Britney's haircut. Yes, for all of the discussions and decisions we make on a daily basis, the one to decide whether to tip (or not to tip) is one that teases us, taunts us, and trips us up into thinking we need to give more than we actually get from most individuals that dispatch their customer skills with the grace of a blindfolded American chef attempting to make chop suey.
And for those waiting with bated breath for me to apologize for including a monumental Supreme Court decision with an alcohol-induced decision (I'm sure), please continue holding...
Back to the subject.
Using the word jar loosely, most establishments simply have tall plastic cups. Sizes range from short to venti to grande. Wait a minute...that's another establishment, er, discussion for another time. :^))
Labels are fastened to them with tape, glue, or spit with a simple request: give me a tip. My quandary is, "Do I tip, or do I not tip?" When facing that guillotine of retail guilt, I typically back my neck out of the wood stump (the counter I've been leaning on and looking over while I wait for someone to recognize me) and then toss a George Washington or two into the mouth of another starving artist, college student, serial killer...you fill in the blank.
Most of the time, I wish I could yank my cold cash out of the crevice of the lone tip jar, but I don't. Part of me understands the life of working in a job that pays you in Monopoly money, allowing you to barely survive on Baltic with a view of the Boardwalk and its bevy of Prada- and Cole Haan-adorned beauties over the horizon. The other part of me does not understand why certain establishments have tip jars when you're only picking up food.
Technically, I was waited on when I called in my takeout order. Now, putting me on hold doesn't count while you ring out the customer standing at the counter looking at the jar. Perhaps when you wrote up my order you used the best penmanship and told Avery to put extra cheese on this pizza because (insert my home address) is a fantastic tipper. I don't know. I can't see what the f#$^ you're writing nor can I hear your instructions to Avery in the back kitchen. Typically, the same person I speak to on the phone is the same person who hands me my order at the counter near the tip jar.
What work did they do? What extra service did they provide?
Tip jars are spreading across America. Starbucks (standalone and at Barnes & Noble). Sandwich shops. Ice cream parlors. Takeout places.
Coming soon...I'm expecting a tip jar to appear at the movie theater.
Where does this lead me? Frankly, I'm a little tipsy, if not dizzy, over trying to figure out how to plaster someone's ass with cash because they kissed yours on the phone or in line. Most people think that you get paid to do a job and that's it (if you're a waitress/waiter or busboy, tips are necessary). Otherwise, aren't there tax laws regarding tips?
Anyhoo, I've exhausted this topic. Keep your hands and change to yourself.
Nope. I'm talking about the controversial tip jar. The tip jar is not as controversial as Roe v. Wade or Britney's haircut. Yes, for all of the discussions and decisions we make on a daily basis, the one to decide whether to tip (or not to tip) is one that teases us, taunts us, and trips us up into thinking we need to give more than we actually get from most individuals that dispatch their customer skills with the grace of a blindfolded American chef attempting to make chop suey.
And for those waiting with bated breath for me to apologize for including a monumental Supreme Court decision with an alcohol-induced decision (I'm sure), please continue holding...
Back to the subject.
Using the word jar loosely, most establishments simply have tall plastic cups. Sizes range from short to venti to grande. Wait a minute...that's another establishment, er, discussion for another time. :^))
Labels are fastened to them with tape, glue, or spit with a simple request: give me a tip. My quandary is, "Do I tip, or do I not tip?" When facing that guillotine of retail guilt, I typically back my neck out of the wood stump (the counter I've been leaning on and looking over while I wait for someone to recognize me) and then toss a George Washington or two into the mouth of another starving artist, college student, serial killer...you fill in the blank.
Most of the time, I wish I could yank my cold cash out of the crevice of the lone tip jar, but I don't. Part of me understands the life of working in a job that pays you in Monopoly money, allowing you to barely survive on Baltic with a view of the Boardwalk and its bevy of Prada- and Cole Haan-adorned beauties over the horizon. The other part of me does not understand why certain establishments have tip jars when you're only picking up food.
Technically, I was waited on when I called in my takeout order. Now, putting me on hold doesn't count while you ring out the customer standing at the counter looking at the jar. Perhaps when you wrote up my order you used the best penmanship and told Avery to put extra cheese on this pizza because (insert my home address) is a fantastic tipper. I don't know. I can't see what the f#$^ you're writing nor can I hear your instructions to Avery in the back kitchen. Typically, the same person I speak to on the phone is the same person who hands me my order at the counter near the tip jar.
What work did they do? What extra service did they provide?
Tip jars are spreading across America. Starbucks (standalone and at Barnes & Noble). Sandwich shops. Ice cream parlors. Takeout places.
Coming soon...I'm expecting a tip jar to appear at the movie theater.
Where does this lead me? Frankly, I'm a little tipsy, if not dizzy, over trying to figure out how to plaster someone's ass with cash because they kissed yours on the phone or in line. Most people think that you get paid to do a job and that's it (if you're a waitress/waiter or busboy, tips are necessary). Otherwise, aren't there tax laws regarding tips?
Anyhoo, I've exhausted this topic. Keep your hands and change to yourself.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Virgin Territory
Blogs, blogs, and more blogs...after a friend (who worked with me at a software company in Portland) sent me the link to her blog, I was intrigued. As a lover of language, and that doesn't mean I edit my friends' emails or chastise individuals who butcher the English language, I decided it was time for my suppressed, creative soul to venture out into the Red Light District in the Big City...and pop the proverbial writer's cherry.
I picked the title, "Ferrannini's Fishbowl," because I'm a Pisces, but also because I feel as if I'm observing more than saying anything aloud. And, I feel like I'm fed this great material that I never use in my banter, my pseudo-standup transgressions that result when the work queue is low or, at home, when I try to be funny.
When I was in high school, a teacher pointed out the Internet as the next big thing and that all of us should seek employment in technology. Well, after a layoff, a crappy job, and a job that was great (but burned me out), I feel I am somewhat settled and ready to bless the world with my sarcastic stories.
I picked the title, "Ferrannini's Fishbowl," because I'm a Pisces, but also because I feel as if I'm observing more than saying anything aloud. And, I feel like I'm fed this great material that I never use in my banter, my pseudo-standup transgressions that result when the work queue is low or, at home, when I try to be funny.
When I was in high school, a teacher pointed out the Internet as the next big thing and that all of us should seek employment in technology. Well, after a layoff, a crappy job, and a job that was great (but burned me out), I feel I am somewhat settled and ready to bless the world with my sarcastic stories.
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