The Unexpected

I bartended late last night, but got up early this morning so I could take my car in for its scheduled body repair. (Nothing serious—a little rust spot under one fender, a scratch on the driver’s door, a ding on the back.) As I was getting ready to go out the door, John from Abra called me to say they were completely overbooked, and would I be able to reschedule? I kept my voice even and told him yes I could, but I was severely pissed off about it. My new date was set, and my day felt scuttled.

As I was driving to my day job being upset, I wanted to call a friend and complain; but it seemed like something I needed to sit with for awhile. Why was I so upset? This wasn’t like losing a limb or being cursed with eternal bad breath. It was merely a change in plans.

I thought about what would make me feel better, and decided that making a detour to Michaelangelo’s coffee shop might provide a small palliative. For some reason their coffee tastes exponentially better than even the best coffee anywhere else. Along with my java, I indulged in a seven-layer bar, which is seven layers of fat, sugar, and utter decadence. While finding comfort in caffeine and wicked food, I resumed my journey to work and my contemplation. What was the big deal about the changed appointment? I was soothed a little by the goodies, but still distressed.

Having to change my appointment was unexpected. Out of my control. Unexpected? Isn’t that the stuff out of which exciting experiences are made? I was the mother who refused to send my daughter off to school with the typical “Be careful” but instead yelled, “Make it a great day! Have an adventure!” It came to me that insistence on perfectly-followed plans, abiding only the expected, and accepting no waves is the way of comfort and unconsciousness—and John had provided me with a wake-up call.

It took me four false starts before I could bring myself to dial his number. Trying to convey this small epiphany to most people—particularly someone I knew almost not at all—seemed like an invitation to look like a whack job. But… if nothing else I felt like I owed it to him to say, “It’s okay.”

I finally dialed. “Hi John. I don’t really know how to say this without sounding like a nutcase. But first I wanted to say thank you for being kind when I was telling you I was pissed off. I know I’m entitled to my feelings, and I appreciate your listening and your kindness.” Then I related the thought process I’d followed about that distress and what caused it. About how I live my life as an adventure and why would I be upset by a changed appointment? Then realizing it was resistance to the unexpected and lack of control, but that ultimately I considered it a gift and an invitation to something greater. I was feeling really retarded by that point, sure that I sounded like one of those annoying, dreamy-voiced New Age people who need a dose of reality if not psychotropic drugs. I lamely finished, “So, John, I wanted to tell you it’s okay about the appointment and to thank you for giving me the opportunity to look at my day in a whole new way.”

There was a long silence. Oh crap. The man was probably moving as far away from the phone as he could. And canceling my rescheduled appointment. Finally he spoke. “You have no idea what this means to me. Thank you so much for telling me this. It’s making me emotional.” I don’t know what little planetary intersection occurred, but I got it that there was something beyond “Oh good, she’s not mad” going on.

There was some larger meaning there. Maybe I’ll find out what it was when I take my car in on June 7. Or maybe it will remain a mystery. But I do know that my day went exactly the way it was supposed to, making that call was the right thing to do, and my coffee and seven layer bar were exquisite.

The Over-achieving Child on Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day to me. My child is better than your child. No? So... did you get a loving phone call, a $25 gift certificate to Amazon.com, and a check for $602.77 this morning?

Okay, so the check wasn't exactly intended as a Mother's Day gift. Timing is everything. It was in yesterday's mail, which I didn't bring in until this morning; and The Kid was directly responsible for it.

Last month Carrie was listening to a radio show in which they were talking about the millions of dollars in unclaimed money around the country in bank accounts, stocks and mutual funds, uncashed checks and wages, etc. They suggested checking the website http://www.missingmoney.com, so Carrie started plugging in the names of her nearest and dearest. Lo and behold, my name came up with money vaguely described as "$100+" in Tennessee where I had been a stockbroker in the 80's.

After Carrie let me know about this, I followed the links, downloaded and completed the paperwork, made copies of my driver's license and social security card, had my signature notarized, and sent it all in. This morning as I opened yesterday's mail, I had a nice little Mother's Day surprise of $602.77 from the State of Tennessee. And my darling daughter.

You know how sometimes when people get a bad deal they'll say, "It's not the money. It's the principle of the thing"—but you know they're not too happy about the money part either? This is the other side of that coin. You would have had a hard time convincing me that Carrie wasn't the greatest kid on the planet before today—but a $600 Mother's Day bonus sure hasn't hurt her Favorite Daughter status.

Tie One On

As a female bartender at the Radisson, the question I am most frequently asked by male customers is, "Did you tie that tie yourself?"

I would guess that at Hooters, the attire and the questions are different.

No Oprah

Tuesday night at the bar was bizarre. Right off the bat, no Oprah, which is my little treat to watch if it’s slow when I first open. They (you know "they"... the great anonymous, omniscient They without whom so little could be vaguely attributed) had been working on the roof and had to disconnect the cable connection to the bar. So the TVs provided only loud, annoying static—similar to what I dole out regularly. No Oprah. Damn! But it was nice not having those noiseboxes blaring for the rest of the evening. No American Idol at 120 decibels like last week.

It was a pleasant and slow/steady evening. I had almost all my side work done and was looking at maybe actually getting out at 11. Then at 10:15 a dark and exotic-looking guy sat down at the bar. He sounded British, but was from Austria. After delivering his Grey Goose and tonic, I got an earful about the impending break-up with his girlfriend. Their trip from LA to Cincinnati last week in which the bitch gave him no peace, constantly nagging about his driving while he was going at a perfectly reasonable 100-110 mph. The fights. The Memphis hotel room where she vandalized his stuff. It was like listening to Vogon poetry, and not unlike Douglass Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide protagonist, I was ready to chew off a limb to escape. But where my customers are concerned, my bar is their confessional, and I am paid (and tipped) to listen.

If the bar isn't busy, I can give last call at 10:45, well before legal bar time. That blessed moment finally arrived, and I gave last call, hoping against hope for refusals. The only other people in the bar—two very sweet and slow-drinking ladies—ordered two more old fashioneds. Damn it all! I knew then I was looking at another hour of listening to Tales from the Bowels of Relationship Hell. Made another GG and tonic for Matthias, and as I suspected, he continued his litany—as though I needed further verification that he and his girlfriend are both disturbed neurotics bordering on the psychotic, if not psychotics bordering on the insane.

Another half hour dragged by, and before I had the wherewithal to lock the door, John, one of our VIPs who stays at the Rad frequently, slipped in. John is a great guy, but serving him meant that I had to give everyone else yet another opportunity at last call. And Matthias and the two sweet but slow-drinking ladies without exception called my bluff and ordered another round.

John immediately got that Matthias was a nutcase, and tried to buffer me by engaging him in conversation. Matthias was only too delighted to add another member to his audience, and slurred through another rendition of the girlfriend woes. I had locked up all the liquor after making John's drink and had also given everyone their checks. By this time it was 1:00 a.m. As Matthias was getting ready to sign his credit card slip, he kept trying to manipulate me into making him and John another drink. "If I give you a big tip, will you make another drink for John and me?" No. John didn't even want another drink. Matthias was unrelenting with blah-blah-blah, big tip, make John and me another drink anyway. I told him I was not going to serve John against his will, and that he had had enough, and thanks, but NO. So he signed the slip, and had still given me a $100 tip on a $30 bar tab. He kept wheedling. I cracked the whip back with "NO. Don't push it!"

When Matthias finally went outside to smoke, John said, "He's going to be a problem. I'll go out and take him his stuff [he'd left on his bar stool]. You lock up." Good by me. After that M came to the door, and I opened it a crack (I have this sad loyalty to my parishioners—er... customers)—and he whined about how misunderstood he was, did I even appreciate the tip (oh absolutely!)... I told him it had been a pleasure visiting with him and that I hoped he and the gf worked it out. Quickly re-locked the door. Then he kept hanging around right outside the (glass) door while I was balancing my bank and finishing the closing process. Definitely creepy.

When John went back to his room, he told the front desk Matthias was a potential problem, so Patti the night auditor came back to the bar and walked with me to do my cash drop and put the bar bank bag in the safe. Thankfully, Matthias had gone back to his room—or had at least gone away.

I finally got home at 2. No Oprah. But I did get a night that qualifies me to be a guest on her show.