Going home for the holidays is always interesting. Especially when you run into people you went to high school with. This is the sole cause of anxiety in my life when I go back home. These people are everywhere. Lurking around aisles at the grocery store, waiting in line at Starbucks, the next table over at Chili's. And the worst thing about these people is that I have completely forgotten all of their names. And this is why I get so tense around them. This is why I avoid them at all cost. It's the awkwardness of it all that drives me into hiding.
I see their face and the visual sparks some far off memory, lodged deep in the back of my mind where I rarely ever venture. The memories are so covered in dust that I can faintly recall that I do know them but have no clue where I know them from. And of course trying to retrieve a name to go with the fuzzy and foggy memory is out of the question. If people are not in the context that you knew them, it is very hard to peg them into a familiar hole in your head.
For years whenever I came home, I would awkwardly go with the conversation. "Hey...you," would be my response to them calling out my name and walking towards me with an extended hand. And I'd stand there for the next few minutes shaking and sweating and asking them questions and tip toeing around the conversation for clues as to who they might be. The fear of getting caught not knowing their name drove me insane. I couldn't take it. And so if I saw anyone that I faintly recognized, I would duck and hide and dodge. I'd grab my cell phone and quickly press it against my face to engage in a fake conversation that seemed so important it was understandable that I couldn't talk right then.
But not this trip. Not this time. I graduated in 1999. That is almost 7 years ago. I have come to the point in my life that I am willing to openly acknowledge the fact that I have forgotten people's names. By now, it should be understandable. And if someone actually gets upset that I have forgotten their name, they have major problems. After 7 years of not seeing someone, you have the right to forget. To be upset that your name was not remembered after 7 years exposes the ugliness of pride like lifting a rock and seeing the black, slithery, shiny insect underneath. "What?!?! You don't remember my name??" Give me a break.
And that's what I did. And nobody got upset. And it was wonderful to be freed from the self-imposed social chains. So from here on out, I'm asking. If I have forgotten (and I most likely have), don't be offended. You are not as important as you think.
By the way, I am writing this in a coffee shop back in Baton Rouge. And there is a grown, Indian woman a table over from me with a "Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen" bookbag at her feet. Ah, it's good to be back home.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Tip of the Day
One aspect of our society that has always perplexed me has been the idea of tipping. Here we have a person who has been hired by an establishment to perform some sort of service and when they actually perform that service, not only do they get a paycheck, but they get a little bit extra. From me. Simply for doing what they are supposed to do. The age old question remains - should we tip?
I waver on the issue, personally. Sometimes I tip, sometimes I don't. Sometimes there is no question - your lunch bill may have an added 18% gratuity in it. This is obligated tipping (which I am not a fan of). Or maybe your waiter was exceptional and it actually gave you pleasure to put down a few bills for him on the table. But sometimes it is not so black and white. There are a few situations that hang out in the gray zone. For example - Sonic. Do you tip the people that bring out your food to you from the little hut thing? What did they do that warrants something extra? They really only did what they were supposed to do, and that wasn't that much. They hang out inside the hut thing, when the food is finished cooking (which they play no part in cooking the food) they grab it, and walk it out to my parked car...15 feet away. In my opinion, that doesn't warrant a tip but yet there is this whole tipping climate at Sonic. You feel bad if you don't tip them. And I frankly don't know why.
Or what about that extra line on credit card print outs? There is a sandwich shop in town that I always go to. The procedure is this - you walk up to the cashier, place your order, he writes it down and hands it to a couple of "sandwich chefs" who assemble your requested sandwich. I hand him my credit card. The little receipt spits out and there it is - that glaring, blank line assigned for a tip. This one really puzzles me. Who I am I tipping - the cashier, the sandwich chefs, all of them? Where does that money go? And what extra service have they provided me that would warrant me to give them more money than their offered service that I already payed for? I don't get it. The dude is standing behind a cash register and punching numbers. He doesn't even have to know how to do math because the computer tells him how much change to give back. He takes my card, swipes it, gives me a receipt and a pen and...that's it. And that's what he is payed to do. I see absolutely no reason why I should tip him. And I don't. But for some mysterious reason, I always feel like he is upset with me when I hand him back the receipt with a line drawn through the spot for his would-be tip.
I really appreciated the tipping policy of Europe when I was there a few summers ago. There was none of this "obligatory" tipping like we have in the States. You sit there, the staff does their job...you know, they serve you food, and you pay for what you ordered. That's that. They will wish you well if you don't tip them. They will be glad you stopped in their restaurant. Now if they did an exceptional job, or if you were feeling a bit generous, you could gladly put a little extra on the top. This was their reward for great service. And this makes sense to me. In America, this function is removed. People everywhere are obligated to tip. It's like Christmas every time you go out to eat - you are obliged to give. And this, it seems to me, strips the heart out of what it means to give. To give means you give freely. You are motivated by generosity. You desire to expend your resources when someone has masterfully performed their duty.
If you were to roll out to Chili's or On the Border or wherever and had your meal and left no tip, the staff would hate you. You would not be welcome back. The manager would want to know what was wrong with the service. I hate this awful obligated tip-giving. If I want to reward someone's service, I should have that freedom and it should be an act of generosity. If I decide not to, I shouldn't get dirty looks and feel bad about myself and walk out with my head ducked down to avoid eye contact.
But as it were we live in a culture where you must tip. So tip I will. Only not at Sonic.
I waver on the issue, personally. Sometimes I tip, sometimes I don't. Sometimes there is no question - your lunch bill may have an added 18% gratuity in it. This is obligated tipping (which I am not a fan of). Or maybe your waiter was exceptional and it actually gave you pleasure to put down a few bills for him on the table. But sometimes it is not so black and white. There are a few situations that hang out in the gray zone. For example - Sonic. Do you tip the people that bring out your food to you from the little hut thing? What did they do that warrants something extra? They really only did what they were supposed to do, and that wasn't that much. They hang out inside the hut thing, when the food is finished cooking (which they play no part in cooking the food) they grab it, and walk it out to my parked car...15 feet away. In my opinion, that doesn't warrant a tip but yet there is this whole tipping climate at Sonic. You feel bad if you don't tip them. And I frankly don't know why.
Or what about that extra line on credit card print outs? There is a sandwich shop in town that I always go to. The procedure is this - you walk up to the cashier, place your order, he writes it down and hands it to a couple of "sandwich chefs" who assemble your requested sandwich. I hand him my credit card. The little receipt spits out and there it is - that glaring, blank line assigned for a tip. This one really puzzles me. Who I am I tipping - the cashier, the sandwich chefs, all of them? Where does that money go? And what extra service have they provided me that would warrant me to give them more money than their offered service that I already payed for? I don't get it. The dude is standing behind a cash register and punching numbers. He doesn't even have to know how to do math because the computer tells him how much change to give back. He takes my card, swipes it, gives me a receipt and a pen and...that's it. And that's what he is payed to do. I see absolutely no reason why I should tip him. And I don't. But for some mysterious reason, I always feel like he is upset with me when I hand him back the receipt with a line drawn through the spot for his would-be tip.
I really appreciated the tipping policy of Europe when I was there a few summers ago. There was none of this "obligatory" tipping like we have in the States. You sit there, the staff does their job...you know, they serve you food, and you pay for what you ordered. That's that. They will wish you well if you don't tip them. They will be glad you stopped in their restaurant. Now if they did an exceptional job, or if you were feeling a bit generous, you could gladly put a little extra on the top. This was their reward for great service. And this makes sense to me. In America, this function is removed. People everywhere are obligated to tip. It's like Christmas every time you go out to eat - you are obliged to give. And this, it seems to me, strips the heart out of what it means to give. To give means you give freely. You are motivated by generosity. You desire to expend your resources when someone has masterfully performed their duty.
If you were to roll out to Chili's or On the Border or wherever and had your meal and left no tip, the staff would hate you. You would not be welcome back. The manager would want to know what was wrong with the service. I hate this awful obligated tip-giving. If I want to reward someone's service, I should have that freedom and it should be an act of generosity. If I decide not to, I shouldn't get dirty looks and feel bad about myself and walk out with my head ducked down to avoid eye contact.
But as it were we live in a culture where you must tip. So tip I will. Only not at Sonic.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Egg Nog Blog
What in the world is egg nog? I've asked a great number people recently. No one really knows. Sure, everyone can identify what an egg is. But it is the nog that trips everyone up.
I'm used to drinks and foods to follow the normal, simple English concept of adjective and noun. Take Grape Juice for example. The "juice" is the noun that gets clarified with the adjective "grape." Simple. Or Vegtable Soup. Again, "soup" is the noun and "vegtable" is the adjective. If you apply that formula to egg nog, you find yourself in a world of confusion. No one knows what nog is.
Could there be Carrot Nog out there and we just don't know about it? Or Vegtable Nog? (Veg Nog). Or Shrimp Nog? Or Bacon Nog?
So I looked it up on ole trusty dictionary.com. The first definition was helpful - A wooden block built into a masonry wall to hold nails that support joinery structures. Most of the other definitions centered around that idea. Wooden blocks. Nails. Yeah, yeah.
Then I went to an Acronyn finder in hopes that mabye N.O.G. stood for something. I found out that in fact it does. The first on the list was National Orchid Garden. Then Net Operating Goal. Not Our Goods. Notice of Gaurantee. Nuclear Operations Group. Number One Gun. Beyond that, there was nothing to help unlock the puzzle.
Nowhere on the internet do we discover what Nog is. It remains a mystery, a perplexing conundrum to be unraveled only in glory. For on this side of heaven, let us all add it to the collected files of unsolved mysteries.
I'm used to drinks and foods to follow the normal, simple English concept of adjective and noun. Take Grape Juice for example. The "juice" is the noun that gets clarified with the adjective "grape." Simple. Or Vegtable Soup. Again, "soup" is the noun and "vegtable" is the adjective. If you apply that formula to egg nog, you find yourself in a world of confusion. No one knows what nog is.
Could there be Carrot Nog out there and we just don't know about it? Or Vegtable Nog? (Veg Nog). Or Shrimp Nog? Or Bacon Nog?
So I looked it up on ole trusty dictionary.com. The first definition was helpful - A wooden block built into a masonry wall to hold nails that support joinery structures. Most of the other definitions centered around that idea. Wooden blocks. Nails. Yeah, yeah.
Then I went to an Acronyn finder in hopes that mabye N.O.G. stood for something. I found out that in fact it does. The first on the list was National Orchid Garden. Then Net Operating Goal. Not Our Goods. Notice of Gaurantee. Nuclear Operations Group. Number One Gun. Beyond that, there was nothing to help unlock the puzzle.
Nowhere on the internet do we discover what Nog is. It remains a mystery, a perplexing conundrum to be unraveled only in glory. For on this side of heaven, let us all add it to the collected files of unsolved mysteries.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
The Question of '05
Yesterday I was at a local coffee shop and after having ordered my cup of coffee, I walked over to the little "fixin' station," you know, the counter designated to the sugar, creamer, etc. I did my usual thing - a bit of sugar, a splash of cream - and something for the first time struck me as very odd. There on the shelf was a glass counter next to sugar. The contents of this container looked almost identical to the sugar - grainy, powdery like white stuff. Only the label on this container read "Creamer." And this got me thinking.
How can powder be creamer? Shouldn't creamer, by definition, be...you know...creamy? I don't understand how you put powder in your coffee and you get creaminess in the end. This makes no sense to me. Powder is one thing. Cream is quite another.
So there I stood in deep reflection at the fixin' station, pondering the metaphysical possibility of powder-based cream. And it reminded me of the astronauts and the freeze-dried, vacuum-sealed, stiff blocks of cardboard they would eat that was supposed to "ice cream." You remember this? Colorful cardboard can't be ice cream. And in the same way, white powder that dissolves in hot coffee can't be creamy. Call me crazy, but that is what I think.
How can powder be creamer? Shouldn't creamer, by definition, be...you know...creamy? I don't understand how you put powder in your coffee and you get creaminess in the end. This makes no sense to me. Powder is one thing. Cream is quite another.
So there I stood in deep reflection at the fixin' station, pondering the metaphysical possibility of powder-based cream. And it reminded me of the astronauts and the freeze-dried, vacuum-sealed, stiff blocks of cardboard they would eat that was supposed to "ice cream." You remember this? Colorful cardboard can't be ice cream. And in the same way, white powder that dissolves in hot coffee can't be creamy. Call me crazy, but that is what I think.
Friday, December 02, 2005
More Musings on the Homeless
Yesterday I got approached by a 'homeless' man who was smoking a cigarette and looking for any spare change I had. Here's my question - should I give money to someone who has more jewelry on than me?
On another note - when I was in Memphis for Thanksgiving, Kathryn and I got approached by a large, large man who said he was looking for spare change to catch a train back to Phoenix. He was large. And this is how he began his request - "You're a Christian, right?" Very sneaky Mr. Large Homeless Man. I love it when they immediately manipulate you by tinkering with your conscience. Then he went on to say that he hasn't 1) eaten in 10 days; 2) just had heart surgery; 3) can't walk good because of a busted foot (he pointed to his shoe at this point); 4) he needed to go back to Phoenix to help people out there; 5) he has walked across town through the blistering cold; and my personal favorite, 6) I'm not on drugs.
Having just heard that the man hasn't eaten in 10 days, I kindly offered if he wanted to go across the street to get some food at a restaurant. He said, "No, they want me to have cash." I asked, "Who are 'they'?" He replied that 'they' were the Greyhound people. They wanted him to have money so that he could eat for the next few days. Hmmm. Does this story even make sense.
Again I offered, "Hey, if you haven't eaten in 10 days, I will gladly buy you some food, but I am not going to give you money." He didn't like this. He accused me of not "believing him" and not "listening to what he was saying." I said, "Hey man, I hear what you are saying. I am offering you food. I am offering to meet one of your needs. You know...food, the stuff you haven't had any of in 10 days." He walked away frustrated. I walked away frustrated.
My feelings toward the homeless fluxuate each day. Sometimes I walk away heart broken and eager to help, eager to give, eager to bring them into my home and prepare them dinner and have them sit at my table. And other times I feel so scandalized, so manipulated by their petty, transparent lies that I leave my encounters with them hardened and irritated. Can someone help me sort out these feelings?
On another note - when I was in Memphis for Thanksgiving, Kathryn and I got approached by a large, large man who said he was looking for spare change to catch a train back to Phoenix. He was large. And this is how he began his request - "You're a Christian, right?" Very sneaky Mr. Large Homeless Man. I love it when they immediately manipulate you by tinkering with your conscience. Then he went on to say that he hasn't 1) eaten in 10 days; 2) just had heart surgery; 3) can't walk good because of a busted foot (he pointed to his shoe at this point); 4) he needed to go back to Phoenix to help people out there; 5) he has walked across town through the blistering cold; and my personal favorite, 6) I'm not on drugs.
Having just heard that the man hasn't eaten in 10 days, I kindly offered if he wanted to go across the street to get some food at a restaurant. He said, "No, they want me to have cash." I asked, "Who are 'they'?" He replied that 'they' were the Greyhound people. They wanted him to have money so that he could eat for the next few days. Hmmm. Does this story even make sense.
Again I offered, "Hey, if you haven't eaten in 10 days, I will gladly buy you some food, but I am not going to give you money." He didn't like this. He accused me of not "believing him" and not "listening to what he was saying." I said, "Hey man, I hear what you are saying. I am offering you food. I am offering to meet one of your needs. You know...food, the stuff you haven't had any of in 10 days." He walked away frustrated. I walked away frustrated.
My feelings toward the homeless fluxuate each day. Sometimes I walk away heart broken and eager to help, eager to give, eager to bring them into my home and prepare them dinner and have them sit at my table. And other times I feel so scandalized, so manipulated by their petty, transparent lies that I leave my encounters with them hardened and irritated. Can someone help me sort out these feelings?
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