Like a Good Disease

Amish in the downtown Chicago? Believe it. After walking down to a McDonald’s for breakfast on State Street, I noticed the banner sign above a few windows. It’s called Rise N Roll. So I went in, along with a few of my other classmates, to discover tables of jams, homemade breads, cheeses, and the best hazelnut peanut brittle ever.

Let me back up. An Amish man who works at the store, named Verle, offered us a sample of veggie chips and cheeses. I was a little hesitant at first, but I said sure. Later that day, I returned and bought a container of brittle which I devoured in less than a week. And my friend Jennifer bought the freshest salsa she’s ever had, she says. I talked with Verle a little and our conversation led to the girl he’s courting long distance. Yes, courting. Not dating. Courting leads to marriage; dating doesn’t.

Then I think, has my Amish fascination started back up? Yes. It’s like a disease out of remission. But in a good way. Want to know how it all began? Go on. Read on …

(Courtesy of justbarely.net)

I was 13, in the year of the sixth grade blues – you know, that awkward time when the first zit forms and you fall of your bike multiple times while scoping the neighborhood for people to by your candy bars. And it was the year when you didn’t fit into any social groups. So you fantasized about the friends you wanted/hoped to have. That’s when the Amish came in. Or, when I ignorantly pronounced “Amish” with a long “a” sound.

My grandmother – a lifetime member of Toby Tours, the senior citizen tourism machine of choice – asked me to go to Nappanee, Indiana with her. We would eat lunch with an Amish family in their home and visit Amish bakeries and markets. Cute Amish boys rode bareback on horse through their front yards wearing overalls. The overalls did it for me.

When the giant tour bus weaved down the roads of northern Indiana, I knew I wanted to stay here forever. I wanted to be Amish. Seriously. I would marry an Amish boy and make him grow a beard because that’s how you tell a married guy from a non-married one. I learned the courting process took place at around 18. So give or take, I had about five years before I could marry. But before that, I would just magically join the Pennsylvania Dutch community, leave my “normal” English life, and forget about my favorite TV shows. Oh! What would I ever do about Saved By the Bell or my hip-hugger jeans and lip gloss and high heels? Here’s some questions I considered when I was contemplating joining the Amish:

1. Would my new Amish family let me eat Chef Boyardee ravioli?

2. What about ballet, tap and jazz lessons?

3. Could I still get my driver’s permit? But I guess a horse and buggy would be cool.

4. How do I heat up Hot Pockets if there’s no electricity?

5. Can I still get manicures? At 13, I had already had one for my birthday.

The answers to my questions shared a simple “No.”

But I was still ready to wear a bonnet and never cut my hair. That same year, I presented the Amish in a final presentation for Language Arts class. I entertained myself with Amish romance novels including those by Beverly Lewis. In these books, a reporter fell in love with a blind Amish woman. When it came to their lifestyle, I was the most informed 13-year-old. Nowadays, I don’t care to change my lifestyle, rather observe what I don’t have.

The Long John: Not Just A Chocolate Donut

Okay, I know. My pie, now cold, has sat out of the oven for a painfully long time. And now it’s probably rotten, fruit flies swarming about, ready to throw in the trash. As my poor metaphor states, I haven’t been on the blog front in quite sometime. A combination of busy-bodyness (sp?), moving, and writer’s block attributes my lack in recent blog postings. But don’t fret. I’m turning a new leaf, or rather baking a new pie, I like to say. My wish for reconciliation even trumps the two stories for class due this week. So now, enjoy some highlights.

About the first or second day in Evanston, I screamed in the bathroom,”What’s this bumpy, red rash doing all over my thighs and knees?” I called my boyfriend’s brother who is a resident in Jacksonville, Fla. My call went to voicemail. Did I eat something? Did that cheesy chicken bacon burger poison my skin? Nope. I had wind burn. Wind burn? Isn’t that only for bikers and runners who run in windy conditions? Nope. Lesson learned. So my boyfriend – who was visiting me – and I drove to Dick’s Sporting Goods that night. We bought two sets of Long Johns – one silk and one cotton. Then I devoured pear cider for the first time. I guess that’s another story.

Old School (courtesy of neatorama.cachefly.net)

So back to the Long Johns. I consulted my sources, finding that “Johns” refers to boxer John L. Sullivan who wore long undies while in the ring. But then there’s the legend of John Quinion, founder of Morgan Knitting mills, who came up with the long underwear concept. Whichever the case, the undies come in an assortment of fabrics including silk, merino wool, flannel, and I’m sure many more. Wearing the undies about four times a week, for the last three weeks, has prevented my legs from chapping while keeping me cozy.

With owning long undies comes responsibilities. I’ve learned I must tell the people around me I’m wearing Long Johns, not Granny panties. Because if I’m not careful when I bend down or stretch upward, the Johns come to public view. “Guys, I’m wearing Long Johns. That’s not my underwear you see.” It’s also difficult to discern when it’s too warm to wear undies. When it’s upwards of 30 degrees, it’s too warm. The other day, my thighs felt constricted as in a wet suit baking in the oven. But it’s all worth it.

Here’s a great comparison: Ever had a chocolate Long John donut? They taste so good until you realize their expensive caloric price.

(photo courtesy i63.photobucket.com) Delicious chocolate Long Johns

On To The Next Chapter …

Deep fried butter balls (courtesy of statefairblog.dallasnews.com)

 

Three-and-a-half months have come and gone. On Saturday, I’ll be packing my bags back to Kentucky, sporting my Hunter Wellies and Portland cashmere scarf. Then on to Chicago in January. And, if all goes well, Maine after that. Oh, wouldn’t it be nice to work at Down East! This fall has been ridiculously unpredictable. Let me provide a brief recap ..

1. Moved to a new town a.k.a. Greensboro in which I knew no one. Except my boyfriend in Durham, 40 minutes away. Thanks to Craigs List I ended up with a fantastic roommate, a fat kitty, an old orange kitty, annoying little white dogs that bark every time I get out of my car, howling cats to the right of our condo, and a semi-clogged shower.

2. Interned at an unfamiliar magazine, in which I received $0 in paychecks. Here, however, I learned  how to be a more conversational writer, and less critical of my work and other’s work I proofread. There’s also the idea of writing specifically for  a niche audience as in a VERY niche audience that desires the warm and fluffy, honey and maple syrup stories. My book review of Ron Rash’s latest collection of short stories was initially “too gory.” That’s A-Okay. I just removed the details about bloody bodies and raw eggs, leaving it up to Rash to fill in the blanks. I learned how much I enjoy the work Daniel Wallace and his Tar Heel Humor column.  

3. Watched more movies and TV shows than I could ever imagine. I’m a new fan of 30 Rock, Californication, The Blind Side, Fantastic  Mr. Fox. Not a fan of Zombieland. And the list goes on.

4. Went to the Dixie Classic Fair and witnessed fried butter (not that I tried any, but rather gagged as I witnessed its creation.) 

5. Became a fan of Paula Deen.

6. Got popped in the head by a giant horse. (See previous blog a few back.)

7. Side-swiped a Lexus, the driver oddly one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. 

8. Experienced some sort of panic attack, realizing I need to reduce my multi-tasking, anxiety inducing habits i.e. playing on the computer, worrying way too much. Ya know.

9. Had the time of my life in Durham with my boyfriend; For the most part, we slept late, and went out to eat for 90% of our meals. We also became proficient on the guitar medium level on Beetles Rockband. But, sadly, I can’t say that for the drums. As weird as it sounds, we shared the bliss of popping each other’s back. 

10. Perfected the art of concocting carrot souffle. 

11. Realized writing really is hard. It’s only fun when it’s done and/or when you receive positive feedback.

12. And how could I forget, served Greensboro’s finest at the local country club.

Now, the next chapter of my strangely exotic life begins. And I couldn’t be more delighted. After all, it’s scarf and brown boot season.

Gossip Girl

Did you hear what she said about your shoes? Oh no, she didn't!

Sometimes it starts innocently: “Okay, so I’m going to tell you a secret, and I know you want say anything to anybody, but please don’t.”

Sometimes it starts abruptly: “I’m going to rip her weave out. She stole Marissa’s man the other night when they went bowling.”

Sometimes is starts unintentionally: “Did  you hear Sue’s getting a nose job, and she’s seeking taxidermy for Roofus?”

And sometimes it shouldn’t start at all.

So I came across a short book actually dedicated to the art of gossiping. It’s called “How to Gossip Nicely: A Southerner Ponders the Grapevine” by Susan Taylor Block. Well, I’m kind of a Southerner but I’ve never substantionally pondered the grapevine. Until now. In the first chapter, I’m told to avoid toxic gossip and in doing so I should refrain from cell phone conversations, “doing lunch,” “the walk” a.k.a. the Walkie-Talkie which gives me time to catch up on everything with my co-walker where we disclose embarrassing female issues, problems with pregnant second cousins who recently inherited $6.3456578 million, and the fact two police officers were sent  to jail for stealing a dozen Krispy Kremes. Please do note, however, I don’t have said issues. But if it’s gossip, I guess it doesn’t have to land in actually-had-occurred land.

Block suggests to follow the Walkie-Talkie mantra, “what happens on the walk, stays on the walk.” During my Walkie-Talkie, I shall not forget to discuss how horrific the wait service was at Magnolia, an upscale Yuppy restaurant in Durham, North Carolina; The scallops and prime rib were rich in delightfulness, but our waitress paused (and did this odd humming/”uhmmm” noise) for 20 seconds while determining if the fully-stocked bar served martinis. It did. What about the restaurant’s policy of not splitting checks?

Yes, I needed to Walkie-Talk about it, but instead I wrote up a review and stuck it somewhere in the public domain of the Web. That same night, I became the audience to my roommate’s heart pounding story where she witnessed an FBI raid. Since the police didn’t have a warrant to enter, they left and 20 minutes later, she says, a church van barreled down the block, honking its horn, and an old woman ran out of the house, into the van. Gossip-worthy news, at its finest; I repeated this story to at least five different people.

Word sure does get around on that ol' grapevine.

What satisfaction do we gain from the Big-G? Is it the adrenaline of retelling a story? Added attention? Accomplishment? To me, the feeling of holding in a juicy tidbit of news is like holding it in when you need to use the restroom and your blatter’s about to pop. Furthermore, I feel it’s my responsibility to inform my roommate there’s now a new homeless beggar at our intersection, and to top it off, he’s an eccentric – a dwarf. Another story of an ecentric is found on page 13 of Block’s book: She recalls the story of a man who had a pet donkey and took it on car rides where he sat in the passenger’s seat, and also brought the donkey to a grocery store and a cocktail party where apparently he was “the best behaved ass of the night.” Or there’s the former chicken farmer close to my old college town of Murray, Kentucky who won America’s Got Talent. In a small town, you betcha he was and continues to be the center of attention at pot lucks, bingo gatherings, and at the gas station pump(s). That brings up another point: us gossipers tend to stereotype since it always makes for a better story. This lends us to news that’s been twisted, baked and/or turned up side down, known as exaggerated gossip, the most dangerous of its kind falling into the toxic category.

In the benefit of the doubt, some exaggerated  gossip is unintentional because maybe the grapevine has faltered in miscommunication down the chain. In these incidences, you should use your best judgement determining if the said news is worth spreading. Otherwise, it’s time to retire it. In high school I told a classmate I saw a teacher holding the hand of another teacher, therefor they had to of been dating. In this case, I was wrong; he had a twisted ankle and needed help up the stairs. Lesson learned: hand-holding doesn’t necessarily warrant dating. After all, in the early 1900s, brothers and sisters loved a clammy hand.

It’s difficult to determine if gossip remains gossip if you tell a stranger, particularly a hair dresser or your nail lady. That’s what they’re payed for – besides manicures and perms – to listen to your whining, complaining, dishing, bashing and other types of gossip that you would NEVER be the subject of. And there’s an entirely different type of gossip out there, known as literature. Literature, meaning book reviews, travel guides, food reviews, hotel reviews. Reviews through expedia.com or urbanspoon.com, on the same restaurant, range from 5 stars to 1 stars. Aren’t they just gossip, some true and some not, based on opinion just like my Crock Pot potato soup recipe from Southernliving.com? I proclaimed in written and verbal word never again will I make such runny, and tasteless soup.

If you talk about something, hear it, or repeat it, it’s gossip. So basically everything we say – unless revoluntionary – falls in the unescapable  trap. Where gossip takes place can, luckily, be pin-pointed, and ultimatly avoided. Right? Wrong. Some places I find gossip thriving includes any family function, nail salon, college dormitory, golf course, country club, dance class, horse stable, high school gym, work space, airplane, taxi cab, coffee shop, bar, or cup cake bakery.

Can you ever really avoid the Big-G? I take home gossip with me every day, and I wouldn’t trade my stories for any amount of pumpkin pie.

Round Two Of The Country Club Experience

It's that good, folks.

The Country Club life gets even sweeter when your manager wrongfully accuses you of filling the ranch squirt bottle with horse-radish sauce. So instead of members receiving their fatty side of ranch with warm chips today, they receive a breathy, nasally surprise – at least the reaction you’ve experienced with horse-radish. You’re rather surprised the news’ just now coming to your attention. You fire back in defense because you remember precisely retrieving the ranch from the giant cooler downstairs. Your manager still doesn’t believe you, so she asks you to take her step by step as to how and when you refilled the condiment station. You even offer to let her smell your apron – for evidence. There’s some fresh ranch on it somewhere. She finally agrees with you.

If the ranch mystery isn’t already your no.1 problem, the case of the unslit lemons becomes an even bigger problem. You’re blamed for not have slitting them. Do consider  that earlier you were reprimanded for slicing them horizontally, not vertically. Because, of course, you only slice lemons horizontally for alcoholic drinks, not for tea. During this wasteful moment, you realize you forgot to bring out the requested Old Lady’s fruit variety of muffins since she wasn’t satisfied with the assortment originally brought to her.

Old Ladies love them some fruit muffins.

So you go on a muffin hunt to discover there’s no more blueberry or cranberry muffins in the bread/muffin drawer because you forgot to turn on the warmer, and thus someone threw out the cold, fruit muffin assortment. You’re upset and not looking forward to delivering the news to Old Lady. You hope she forgets, because that’s what old ladies do. On your way back to the dining room, to break the news, your fellow server penguin man curses at the unslit lemons, takes a handful in his hand and throws them on the ground. You don’t mind since you’ll have to sweep them up eventually as a standard chore. But he tells you you’re not doing an adequate job, you were trained improperly, you never bring out enough water pitchers, you don’t fill the ice bucket high enough and so on.

Initially you want to dramatically throw your apron on the floor, stomp, and scream “I quit.” But you don’t because you’ve already found comfort in making his country club life even more miserable and that’s enough for your satisfaction. You pass the Old Lady’s table, with tea pitcher in hand. She remembers, thus transitions into Mean Old Lady. You’re forced to finally locate the fruit muffins. If she only knew you touched them with your condiment-filthy hands, and took a few bites out of the tops of them, she would sue somebody (hopefully not you.) When you later clean her table, you discover she never touched one fruit muffin.

Your shift is finally over, and all you want is to rip the penguin suit, throw it in the hamper, and maybe wash it next week (or the next.) Gasp! There’s a 3-inch mustard streak residing on your left pocket, and all your vest buttons have popped off. You freak because there’s no club soda.

Monday Night’s Episode

Enjoy the story of my Monday night and third horse-related injury in the last year, as told to you in second person.

The treats therapy horse could have enjoyed ...

You’ve led a grumpy, fidgety warm blood – once valued at $100,000 during his prime time as champion jumper – around the stadium for 45-minutes. He’s supposed to be the good boy, the good therapy horse who carries the physically disabled child. He’s supposed to get rewarded with excessive petting and a bucket of treats. Instead, he thinks he can nip at you because he’s big, beautiful and once worth more money than you’ve ever seen. Now, he’s bitter about his shoulda-woulda-coulda life, left with a messed up nervous system and a quivering lower lip. So he bites you and nips at his discretion. But finally, after some taps on the mouth and shoulder, he stops and gives into the boss (a.k.a. you.) Too bad you’re already tired, just from leading this giant pony around the ring like 50 times in a row.

Why does therapy pony have head protection, but I don't? Oh, that's called a helmet.

Next thing you know, winter has crept up with nights beginning at 6:30 p.m., no longer at 8. You miss those long summer nights where daylight never seemed to end, and you could stay up way past your bedtime and not even know it. Now, you catch yourself falling asleep watching movies and it’s only 9 p.m. Back to the responsibility of untacking, grooming and taking your assigned therapy horse to his stall. But he’s not going to his stall tonight. No, he’s going way up the cobbly hill and you must lead him there. You think you’ll be A-OK because the flood lights are on, providing ample light not to trip on the lead rope or fall on your face. Now, it’s time to take therapy horse up the hill where he’s anxious to mingle with friends. So you’re half way up the hill and the flood lights turn off. You can’t see anything, not even shadows because your eyes are still adjusting to the abrupt change. All you can do is feel your horse tugging up the hill, understanding horses must take bigger strides to get those 1,000 pounds successfully up an incline. Unfortunately you don’t realize you could have just dropped the rope and all this would have been avoided but it’s dark and you can’t do anything right in the dark. You pull him back, urging him to slow down because keeping up with him is or was never an option. He reaches the gate, you don’t. You catch up and then he swings his black body around, colliding his giant head with yours. You’re dizzy, a tad confused as to what just happened but you’re A-OK, remember? You’re annoyed because a horse just head-butted you.

After learning the results from my CAT scan. I'm giving Where The Wild Things Are two thumbs up!

You drive home, confused as to where that car came from and where that other car came from. Are you A-OK? Or, are you just having a small panic attack/reaction? You immediately ice your head, and then question yourself if you may have just suffered catastrophic brain injury, dying just like the British actress did from hitting her head while skiing. So you freak out of course because your brain might be bleeding and might stop functioning. Your roommate – such a good roommate – drives you to the emergency room even though she doesn’t want to risk getting the flu. Later she wears a mouth mask, just in case. You walk into the ER, find out you’ll probably wait more than four hours before you’re seen by the doctors, and of course by then you’ll die. Then you think you should have been a nurse, instead of what you’re still going to school to be; you would never get bored since you would see crazy patients like me who’ve had their head busted by an animal. Luckily, your roommate suggests driving across town to another ER. Now you’re hungry so the two of you drive through Arby’s, order a Arby’s sandwich and curly fries. You’re angry because you want to eat the curly fries but you’ve already lost your appetite. 

It's only appropriate that a cat get a CAT scan.

After checking in at ER #2,  you’re thankful that you have just recently renewed your insurance policy because otherwise you would be in a lot of trouble either from not receiving treatment and thus not making it or not ever being able to afford a $2500 hospital bill. Phew, you’ve got your bases covered. Now, you await the doctor and you start experiencing loss of breath, nausea, and compulsive trembling. You think it’s your injured head causing the commotion, but really it’s only nerves. The doctor (rather charming guy) orders a CAT scan. The benefits outweighed the risks, so you’ll receive a high dosage of radiation. Oh well. Next thing you know you’re wheeled off in a wheelchair and you laugh because you’ve never been in a wheel chair. Take the CAT scan 

You get your CAT scan back. You’ll be just fine, and you hope therapy pony will be nicer next Monday.

Greetings from Savannah

Fall Break Adventures, Pt. I

In front of the famous fountain

Moss covered trees

The fountain again

Jordan posing at the former Forest Gump bench location

Isn’t there a Bull Street in every Southern town?

For every block in Savannah, there’s a lovely square

Robert Redford happened to be filming his new film, “The Conspirators,” while we were in Savannah

My second trip to the buffet at Paula Deen’s The Lady & Sons, hands down the best meal of the trip

Just Say No to Sweets. Instead, Whine About It.

(Photo courtesy of imagecache5.art.com)

Today we went to Foster’s, a strange, unorganized old-people market place that hip law students like to go to in Durham. I ordered a veggie and brie loaf and a mac n’ chicken concoction. The meal was completely satisfying, but I wanted more. More meaning I didn’t just want dessert, I demanded it, needed it, craved it. You get the point. It seems that dessert after lunch, and dessert after dinner have become addiction events. I’ve waken up before at 2 a.m. in this confused state of being when I’ve eaten limited amounts of sugar and baked fat hours before – a dessert withdrawal, I like to call it – and because I had no stocked cookies or chocolate milk to reach for, I had  to, with much guilt and shame, pop a raspberry Tums chew.

“You might just lose six pounds in a week if you don’t eat your desserts, Whitney,” My BF tells me. I tell him to shove it. Then I think, what if I can really combat the sweets attack? I forgot to mention I’m already on the right track. Like today at Foster’s, he took my hand and made sure I avoided eye contact with the peach bread pudding, or with the tiny kids pack of gummy bears. I failed to tell him about the apple cider latte and shortbread sugar cookies (with sprinkles!) I enjoyed yesterday around 2 p.m. when he was studying at the library and when I got bored at Barnes & Noble. So right now I’m experiencing (mild) withdrawal, typing away and every now and then glancing at the half empty plastic Coke bottle that’s not mine being occupied by some crazy law student that must study on a Saturday (on Fall break!) I can drink water all day, and cut out the soda pop, the teas, and maybe the juices. That’s a start, right?

This past week, on my Fall break adventures in Savannah, we awoke at 9 a.m., and diligently marched down to the podium on Bull Street to put our name in for lunch at Paula Deen’s The Lady and Sons. The slogan on the restaurant told us we needed to Put Some South In Our Mouths. “Sure, Paula” I said. “Bring it on, Sista.” So we came back at for our 12:30 appointment with Paula (Well, just with her spirit). Food Coma. Food heaven. Foodie paradise. Foodie Heaven. Foodie Love. ETC., ETC., ETC.

Post Paula’s Buffet Pig-out, our waiter offered us free dessert via a stocked tray of cobblers and banana puddings. So why would I ever need to say no to an after meal delight? That would be just plan rude. You would think I would be full from Paula’s buffet consisting of sweet potatoes, creamed corn, green beans, fried chicken, smashed potatoes, and bakes apples. Nope. Can’t pass up free dessert.

Then there’s that stupid idea about moderation, which is always something to strive for yet presented on a freakishly thin line as thin as Ralph Lauren alters its models’ bodies. Am I a moderate person? Does balancing exercise and all-I-can-drink water with fatty dessert count? Why, sure. I used to jog and do sit-ups and partial routines from that workout series called P90X. Well that all ended about two weeks ago. Shoot fire. Maybe I need self therapy, just talk it out.

What’s so great about dessert that I always want it? I’ll just blame others. My mom brainwashed me into thinking it’s A-OK to buy Pepperidge Farm chocolate cookies and avocado dip and pecan rolls and cupcakes and Chess pie all in one grocery store outing. She always encouraged a good dessert after dinner, and not a cook or baker at heart, the majority of our desserts were store bought so I guess we could never really control the high amounts of sugar we consumed. My dad, though, would always condemn our sugar buying habits and instead opt for vegetables and meats that would typically always go uneaten and stink up the fridge. Then there was those days we would have to hide our sweets purchases in the back of the panty in hopes of him not becoming a hypocrite secretly eating my fudgesicles and pecan spin wheels that were to go in my lunch box. Shame on him.

Shame on me.

Life At The Country Club

Grin and bear it. That’s what I’ve been told all my life, especially when it comes to working at jobs which have nothing to do with your intended choice of career. I’ve worked as a server at Ryan’s Steakhouse, a hostess at Cracker Barrel (in which you smell like burnt fire place dipped in a bowl of dumplings), and more recently a server at a country club. For my safety, this country club will remain nameless. Working for the last few months or so, I’ve noticed much more than just tarnished silver spoons. On my first day, I heard the story of the member who demands his toilet seat warmed up by a staff member. He’s the same retired man who requires guidance to the restroom by hand. He’s the same man who makes one of the waiters park his luxury car. This is just the beginning.

The Uniform

If only my uniform looked something like this:

(photo courtesy of uniformwizard.com)

But instead, it looks something like this:

(photo courtesy of miamitux.com)

Three days a week, I’m dressed as a human penguin in full tuxedo pant, collard shirt, vest, and the cherry on top – the bow tie. When I was fitted for this unflattering uniform at the local bridal store, I was not a college girl being fitted for her (required) work uniform, but rather a lesbian bride-to-be. Quite an unpleasant situation. $100 later (all of which was deducted from my paycheck), three buttons on my vest mysteriously fell off thanks to poor factory craftsmanship. Temperature in the dining area remains at a nauseating 75 degrees, which is perfect for thinning, senior citizen skin. But when you’re wearing vest, and suffocating penguin attire, it’s not fun. It’s also not fun when you squirt mayonnaise on various regions of your black, already greasy apron. The apron, nice for storing straws and spare pens and non sharpened pencils, is designed to fit my waist properly. But when I’ve exhausted my energy locating a frosted glass and bottle (never can!) of (must be caffeine-free) diet coke, my apron is practically twisted down to my knees, thus requiring an extra 30 seconds for readjusting when I could be scavenging the extra skim milk for that one mom that freaks out if her three-year-old drinks 2%. (Here’s a trick I learned on the job. Don’t have skim, but ya got whole? No problem. Just add two-parts water and shake. Baby will never know the difference.) Don’t feel like washing your tux? No problem. Just dab some carbonated soda water on the stains. The unwashed armpit areas provide natural perfume for guests to enjoy.

Rule 1. Know your customers

The Old Man Golfer

(photo courtesy of http://acontinuouslean.files.wordpress.com/2008/02/mr6.png)

He’s picky, decisive. You secretly admire these traits and want them for yourself. He sits at the same table every day for lunch. He likes half a tuna sandwich with one slice of tomato. Mayonnaise on the side. (You chuckle because you hate mayonnaise and the thought of having to prepare it). He also likes his top piece of rye bread not toasted and his bottom piece of rye toasted. He orders fruit on the side, but insists on retrieving his own fruit from the salad bar. There better be enough watermelon up there, or all hell breaks loose. Like you’re going to get germs on it or something.

Please don’t get his order wrong, or he’ll tell you your brain is a size of a pea and how astonished he is that you remembered to spell your name correctly on your name tag. You get his order wrong. He’ll also be quite shocked when he asks where you go to school. And when you tell him YOU got into graduate school he’ll politely ask you to repeat this, because he didn’t think he heard you correctly.

The Friendly Old Woman She goes glam at the club … plasters herself with cake-like foundation, bright red lipstick and cheetah print on her belt, her scarf, her shoes, and her blazer. Typically very sweet. She likes to play bridge with her lady friends and take bridge lessons three or four times a week. She drinks her decaf coffee black, and requests extra lemons for her unsweet tea, so don’t bring out extra creamer because it will just go to waste and the kids in Africa will continue to starve. Her bacon on her BLT must be extra crispy.

She loves the muffin assortment you bring out to her table. You, however, have sampled the muffins a time or two and think they taste a little burnt. However, that first day you discovered the muffins, you stuffed three in your pocket and forgot about them until you stuck your hand down into the muffin mush. She wants wine at 12:30 in the afternoon. White wine. Or she may want a Bloody Mary. You laugh because older people aren’t supposed to drink, and definitely not at 12:30 in the afternoon. She also recently began dating a man friend at the club, so you remember to charge his tab, not hers.

The New Member She asks you where the powder room is. She inquires what days breakfast is served. She asks you a lot of questions you’re surprised you even know the answers to. She tells you the food is wonderful, how crisp her bacon is. How warm the ham and lentil soup is. She wants dessert. No one orders dessert. You enjoy charging her $4.50 for a chocolate ice cream pie that would take you three days to burn off. You chuckle. But then she sits in the corner, gossiping with her friend, also a new member, about how her ex-husband wants to reconcile way past 2 p.m. – when lunch is officially over – and you can’t finish your chores because it’s not etiquette to finish your chores in front of a member.

The Underage Member

(photo courtesy of littlebigmagazine.com)

Mannered, basically how you want your kid to turn out. He drinks skim milk, but really drinks the watered-down whole milk you prepared because you were too lazy and too busy to locate. You like to watch them talk, watch them tell stories of their family vacations and how cool the sailing in Nova Scotia was. They’re articulate for their age and must take the gifted and talented classes at the private school. He wants to grow up and play professional golf. Already works on his swing at the driving range. You notice a lot of these kids are adopted. You want your kid to turn out like them. You want to flash forward through graduate school, adopt a goldendoodle.

The Normal Member You hunt them. You fight for their table. Never complaining. Quick to give tips when really tips are included in membership dues. They don’t drink much water or coke, so you rarely have to make more than two refill stops. They read your name tag, and call you by your name. They rarely order from the menu, usually just get the cold lunch buffet. Easy enough.

Easy enough.

A Fresh Look

Enjoy my facelift. Note to Garden & Gun: Thanks for your geese.