The Verbal Tip

I have an embarrassing admission: I really like waiting tables. I have the feeling that when the time comes, a year from now to give it up and start teaching full time, I’m really going to miss it. Waiting tables gives me the rush I used to get selling cars, without so much time commitment. I get to sell, talk to people, make them laugh on a good night and hopefully send them out the door grinning ear to ear in less than two hours.

And just like selling cars, my income is dependent on how well I do my job. If I sell a more expensive bottle of wine, appetizers, salads and entrees; force feed them dessert and convince them that no Italian meal is complete without grappa, I make a larger tip. In theory that is. Some nights, it’s just not the case.

It’s the nightmare of any server. The table is happy, they’re laughing, telling you how great you are. It might be a little more work than you really want; it’s not always easy to keep the charm on when I’ve been up and down a flight of stairs for the thirtieth time. Underneath the vest and bowtie, I’m probably a sweaty mess, and hungry. So hungry. The smile sticks though, and soon we’re sharing stories about college or kids or whatever their hearts desire. I may tell them I’m a student, or a teacher, sometimes I tell them both. I offer a white lie here and there to join in conversation; mention non existent boyfriends, cats I don’t actually own anymore, and dating horror stories. Mostly those are true.

I sang the “Miss Suzy had a steamboat…” rhyme to David Schwimmers assistant one night; she was desperate to remember it and I just couldn’t resist. Explained why “Paranormal Activity” was terrible for the first hour and then great for the last half hour to Wonder Woman and a Congressman, after she said “Ask Liz, she’ll probably know and have a good story about it too!” I did.

It’s all worthwhile, usually. I see my effort reflected in the wad of cash in my pocket at the end of the night. But then, there’s always that one table that thinks somehow the good time THEY gave ME is enough, and drop ten percent on their bill. They do it with a smile, saying sweetly “We’ll be back and we’ll ask for you!” I return the smile, tell them I appreciate it and look forward to seeing them again.

Then I open that folder, and see what they have done.

They left me a verbal tip.

I want to follow them down the street, tap them on the shoulder and tell them that their good time does not in fact pay my bills. I can’t pay rent on my charm; my leasing company is pretty intent on actual money. My car doesn’t run on giggles, and all the compliments in the world will not keep me warm in the winter.

I can’t do that (and keep my job), so I do the next best thing. I slink over to the computers where there are always at least one or two co-workers who will sympathize with me. It’s happened to all of us at one time or another. I open that folder, and place it in front of them.

“Ouch, that really sucks.”

“Damn Verbal Tips. They better not ask for me next time they come in.”

Not a poet.

“It’s nice that you got in, Liz, but it’s just a small local contest. Not that big of a deal. And besides, you’re not really a poet.”

Not really a poet. That’s what the “real poet” I knew told me the day I got accepted to a local poetry contest. I was overwhelmed with excitement, I told everyone I knew. I had finally worked up the courage to submit a poem, and it had won an award. I was going to read it in front of people.

Gulp.

I was going to read it in front of people.

I had written more poems than I could count, starting in ninth grade when I hadn’t completed an assignment. We were supposed to write a two page reaction to the film “Schindlers List”, which we had gone to the theater to see a few days before. All I could manage were random words, bits and pieces of sentences, images that wouldn’t leave my head. I was distraught over the film, somewhat embarrassed that I began crying within the first half hour and didn’t stop until we left the theater. I sat in fifth hour Algebra while Mr. Dorking (yes, his real name) urged us to solve for x and tried to organize the words and phrases I had written on my paper. I found a poem in there, not that I knew what a poem what since poetry was never a part of English instruction, but I liked the way it sounded in my head, the way it looked on the page. Mostly I liked that I’d at least have something to hand in sixth hour. The poem came back to me two days later, with a note from the teacher: “Liz, this was not the assignment you were given, but it is a wonderful poem. Keep up the good work.” I had fooled her. My poem was fifteen lines. I got an A for writing fifteen lines when everyone else had to write two pages.

I loved poetry.

I kept writing, through college in fact. Took poetry workshops where undergrads dressed in black held their noses as they waded through my poems. I wasn’t “dark” enough for them; they said my poetry lacked depth.

I agreed.

And kept writing.

Which brought me to that local contest.

I was about to share a poem with people I didn’t know.

Never having felt shy before, I didn’t know what to do with the emotion when it hit me that day.

Leaning over to my Mom I whispered in her ear, “Please don’t be mad at me. It’s just a poem.”

I swallowed hard, breathed through my nose and didn’t trip as I walked onto the stage.

I’ve written dozens of poems since then. I participated in a workshop with poets that I now call friends and yet still intimidate me with their talent.

That night I became a poet.

It happened because of this poem:

Absolut Holiness

She stopped believing

in wine as her savior

instead

she turned to Vodka.

Depending on her

consistently fluxuating bank account

its flavor wavered

from smooth lemon twist of Citron

straight from the freezer

to the gallon of Five O’clock

stashed in the trunk of her ’87 Golf.

Vodka was a prayer

for moral sanctuary

emotional exile

physical release.

With each drink

her mother’s voice echoed

“Are you going to Mass this week?”

And her reply

“Only if that chalice is filled with

Absolut Holiness

instead of table wine.”

I’ll never be famous for my poetry.

There may always be people that tell me I’m not a poet.

I might even agree with them.

I’ll just keep writing

At least I can still see my feet.

Most people I know, if they make resolutions, do so on New Years Eve. They promise to change something, do something or be something other than what they are at that moment. Maybe they think something magical will happen as that clock strikes midnight and they receive the first kiss of the New Year. I sometimes think that way too, and I’ve been known to jump on the magical bus here and there. I certainly did this year.

But that magic wears off. Sometimes it only takes a week.

Sometimes it takes six.

Inevitably though they seem to fade.

The promises I made on Freemont Street or those I professed under the fireworks don’t seem to stand the test of time.

I prefer to use my birthday as a time for change.

I turned thirty-one today.

As I do every year, I looked backwards.

Five years. Skip that. Nothing good happened that year.

Ten years.

Ten years ago I thought I had the whole world figured out. I was twenty-one. Just one year left in obtaining my bachelors degree in unemployment, only three months from getting married.

I had a five year plan. I had a ten year plan.

None of it came true. It was a good plan. But life got in the way.

In one way I’m in exactly the same place.

A year from finishing school. However nowhere near being married. In fact I wonder if that’s something I’ll ever be willing to do again.

And a plan?

Nothing like it.

Instead I see my next year as nothing but transitions.

My life is one of those pictures they used to sell at the mall. The ones that you were supposed to stare at, but not at one fixed point, until an image appeared in the indistinguishable pattern. The sales people would tell us to look at our reflections in the glass, not at the pattern.

My friends could see them.

They would stand there, exclaim “It’s a dolphin!” or “I can see three clowns with pointy teeth waiting to eat you!”

All I ever got from them was a massive migraine.

Same thing happens now when I look past April 2011.

Massive Migraine.

Only now, there’s no one standing next to me telling me what that picture really shows.

Someone should say “It’s Austin!” or “Look, I can see Madison in your future”.

I think I’ll just stop looking and stare at my feet like I did back then.

No headache and they always seemed to know where to take me next.

I also don't have a Gucci bag

I never owned a pair of Girbaud jeans. Or K Swiss tennis shoes.

But in seventh grade I did believe that those labels would have changed my life.

Seems to me that we learn from a young age that labels, either on our clothing or ones that define who we are make all the difference. As we get older, they become more and more important.

There are the labels we give ourselves; mine include student, teacher, server, loud, music lover, writer, poet, and glutton for punishment. Then there are the ones other people give us, which may be even more accurate than the ones we attribute to ourselves.

Our jobs become labels. Our political beliefs, our religious affiliation, our cultural backgrounds, and our relationship status.

Oh, the relationship status. The social networking sites have this down to a science. You can be one of the following:

Single (Simple enough)

In a relationship (Romantic relationship is assumed)

Engaged (Naturally follows the previous)

Married (Again, progression)

It’s complicated (Aren’t they all?)

In an open relationship (Apparently these people get theirs and yours too)

Widowed (A leap really, since there’s no divorced option).

What if we don’t consider ourselves any of these? Single implies that you’d rather not be; the relationship ones, well they all use that R word which while sometimes can feel like a down comforter on a January night, can also feel like a jumpsuit made out of hair on an August day in Texas. There should be more categories, for those of use who disdain the black and white nature of relationship or not and prefer to live in gray. I propose the following:

In Love (Simple. At least it is to me)

Okay the way things are (The world isn’t ideal, but you’ve come to terms with it)

Waiting for it (Life gets in the way. Some things are worth waiting for)

Seeing how things grow (Same as waiting only with nourishment)

On hold indefinitely (Typically a one sided waiting)

Having my cake and eating it too (Dating enthusiastically)

Considering the nunnery (Damaged goods)

Holding out for my backup (Mine happens at 40)

Happy (Could be with someone, or without. Doesn’t matter, they just are)

Maybe I’ve got it all wrong.

Maybe gray doesn’t actually exist. It could be a lie I’m telling myself, like the words I make up when the ones in the dictionary don’t seem to fit what I’m trying to say.

Then again, those words though they have no definitions by society’s standards, always manage to get my point across effectively to anyone hearing them.

I’m hoping the same goes for gray.

Escape

Some people wear depression well, like jeans and a hoodie. They sink into it, take comfort in it.

But depression doesn’t suit me.

On me it’s a straight jacket, leggings, and platform flip-flops. The most uncomfortable thing I can imagine wearing.

I want it off me as soon as possible.

Even Houdini had a hard time escaping from a straight jacket and he was a professional.

I’ve tried in the past to untie it, one lace at a time.

Wiggle free of sadness while still keeping it intact, allowing it to be set aside where it could be put back on at any time.

I’ve tried asking others to untie it for me. I didn’t know then that it wasn’t their job.

Now I prefer to cut it off.

I tear at it.

Twist, turn and scream.

Use my tears to lubricate the knots.

I fight.

And I win.

Can I get a heart-shaped salad?

There are heart-shaped helium balloons in the checkout line at Kroger.

Pink and red have invaded the center aisle at Meijer, and a Gorilla holding a heart sang “Love Me True” to me as I walked into Target yesterday.

It must be Valentines.

I considered jumping on the “Valentines Day sucks” bandwagon again this year. It’s been a comfortable place for me over the past two bitter years. I sit there, nose in the air scoffing at the fools who buy into the chocolate dipped holiday. Scowl at people holding hands. Whisper under my breath “get a room” to the people kissing on the corner. I perpetuated the idea that love poems don’t exist, and even suggested buying cactus for each other because it seems to me it is the least loving plant in existence. But I donated my bitter pants to the Salvation Army a month an a half ago, and I don’t miss them one bit.

Being in love doesn’t mean I have to love Valentines Day though.

I could join those who argue that Valentines Day is just a cliché, that we shouldn’t need a holiday to remind us to celebrate the people we love. I suppose that’s true. Everyday is a good day for chocolate, flowers and love letters. Especially love letters. Is it really so wrong though to have a holiday reminding us to celebrate love? Isn’t that what all holiday’s are about, reminding us to celebrate?

Thanksgiving is a reminder to give thanks for our blessings.

Christmas is about remembering the birth of Jesus.

Veterans Day, Halloween, Easter, Flag Day, Presidents day, Martin Luther King Jr. day, they are all reminders to celebrate something that we don’t think of everyday. If Valentines Day is a cliché because it is a reminder, then logic would follow that the rest of them are too. I don’t buy that.

I’ve heard the argument that Valentines Day “reinforces gender roles”. It’s crap. No, I don’t need anyone to buy me tulips to put on my kitchen table. I can buy my own box of chocolates, even heart shaped if I want. I can afford to buy my own dinner. And I can make my own play list of really cheesy love songs, even burn them to a CD and write a dedication to myself if I want to:

“To Liz: I love you and I’ll always be here for you. All my heart, Liz”

It’s not quite the same.

The truth is, I love Valentines Day and always have.

It’s cheesy, like Phil Collins singing “Groovy Kind of Love”.

I love cheese.

In seventh grade, cute but dumb gave me a yellow haired troll. I broke up with him the next day. It wasn’t because of the troll.

My senior year, my first real boyfriend brought me six pink roses.

My mom gave me a silver heart necklace, which I still cherish.

I’ve gotten carnations, the ugliest flower in the world.

A tiny heart shaped box of chocolates.

A dozen red roses delivered to work.

Fancy dinners at expensive restaurants.

Shared a sundae at McDonalds because a dollar was all we could scrounge up.

Had “Angel Eyes” dedicated to me on a local radio station.

I loved all of it.

I’m not ashamed.

It’s okay to admit you love it too.

I won’t tell.

The Recession Strikes Pants.

The tax man gave me money today, and I decided that for the first time in two years I was going to buy myself some new pants. Dress pants. Pants that an observer would deem appropriate for the classroom instead of the denim trousers I’ve been wearing three times a week for the past year. They don’t really fit well, but they only need washing once a week and go with everything. They’ve been good for my personal economy. I consider them my recession pants.

The recession has made times tough all around. I read a news article about companies not wanting to raise the prices on food so instead they charge the same price for smaller packages. This has happened in cereal, bread, and ice cream. Apparently, as I learned today, it also applies to pants.

There used to be two stores where I could walk in and buy pants. They weren’t spectacular pants, and always more than I wanted to. But I could try them on, decide if they made my butt look flat and walk out the door with nice new pants. They were never really as long as I’d like, but they worked. Not today.

Today the pants had felt the effects of the recession.

I realize that I’m unusually tall, and most of that height is caused by terribly long legs. In my ideal world, a long length would be thirty-six inches. I’ll settle for a thirty-four, can’t wear heels with them but I don’t do that anymore anyway so that’s fine. But thirty-two inches as a tall?

“This company considers ‘tall’ to be 5’7-5’9’. You’re quite a bit taller than that. How tall are you anyway?” I hate that question. Hate it more from tiny little sprites posing as sales people. I considered stepping on her.

“Almost six feet. In whose world is 5’7 tall? My sister is 5’10 and I wouldn’t call her tall. What happens to women once they grow past 5’9? Are we supposed to find a revolutionary doctor willing to amputate a portion of our legs, in my case just below the knee, so we can buy pants? Or am I supposed to wear Capri pants all year around, since I could buy a pair of your “regular” pants and they’d be a perfect fit?

Two years ago these pants were long enough. I have a pair at home, almost worn through that prove it. Now you’re just like the grocery store; selling less product for the same inflated price. I want all the ice cream I’m paying for and I want all the pants I’m paying for too. Is that so hard?”

Okay, no. I didn’t say it. But I wanted to.

It’s not the tiny persons fault the pants are short. She might have even tried to make me feel better by saying what all short people say when I complain about buying pants:

“Well, pants are always too long for me.”

It doesn’t help. Extra pant can be cut off and hemmed. No one adds pant.

Instead I forced a smile.

"Nevermind. I’m seriously considering the logistics of giving up pants altogether.”