Wacky Words of Wisdom

On this day was born
A man they called Seuss.
And the stories he told
Rivaled old Mother Goose!

Though skeptics might ask
What his legacy was:
Fantastical creatures?
Words ending in "uzz"?

The lasting impression
Of the books we hold dear,
Is that each of the morals
Are profound, yet so clear!

His great use of cadence
Of iambs and rhyme,
Made the yarns that he spun
Ring true every time.

While children relate
To Foo Foo the Snoo,
We could all learn a lot
From Thing One or Thing Two!

"A person's a person,
No matter how small"
We heard from a Horton,
not a human at all!

With Yertle we mused
That all turtles roam free,
"As turtles and, maybe,
All creatures should be."

The Grinch's epiphany
Isn't hard to remember,
For that book-turned-cartoon
We watch every December!

"Maybe Christmas," thought Grinch,
"Doesn't come from a store.
Maybe Christmas... perhaps...
Means a little bit more."

And then there's the Lorax
Who speaks for the trees;
And the Once-ler who warned
Of the forest's unease:

"Unless someone like you
Cares a whole awful lot,
Nothing is going to
Get better. It's not."

But not all of Doc's stars
Need names like Jibboo...
In The Places You'll Go
The main character's YOU!

"You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself any
Direction you choose."

And with that, Dr. Seuss,
Happy birthday to you, sir!
"There is no one alive
Who is you-er than you (were)!"

Signs, Signs...

In the restaurant business, good servers learn to "read" their tables; they manage to anticipate a customer's needs without needlessly interrupting their dining experience. The key to providing just the right amount of service-- without appearing overly attentive or neglectful-- is to pick up on the non-verbal cues. And during the course of a meal, a typical diner provides dozens of clues.

If I approach a new table and see that the menus that the host passed out are stacked at the end of the table, I know they're ready to order right away. But if their noses are still stuck in the menu when I return to drop off their drinks, I know not to push for a food order. An empty glass is one of the easiest clues to spot; there's really no excuse notto keep the glasses full or the beer flowing.

A patron who is on the edge of their chair and/or leaning forward is deep in conversation and doesn't want to be disturbed; a patron who is leaning back and/or pushed their chair away from the table is full. If a half-eaten meal is neatly organized or compartmentalized on the plate, I'll show up with a to-go box, while a wadded up napkin on the plate is the universal white flag of surrender, signaling that-- despite the diner's most valiant efforts-- the behemoth-sized portions won out in the end. I will always offer to bus these plates, regardless of how much food may be left underneath the crumpled napkin.

When I drop the check, I'll stand the booklet up on the table; when I see that the book is lying down, I know that my guests are likely ready to cash out. Some savvy guests go the extra mile and leave a portion of their cash or credit card visibly poking out of the closed book, which saves me from having to use my powers of x-ray vision (which comes standard issue... along with the apron and the thick skin.)

It's common knowledge among restaurant workers that some tables are needier than others. With a little practice, good servers can determine whether a table expects them to: hang out and make small talk, remain silent but visible, or-- once the food is served-- to stay away until someone at the table calls them over. By the time I take their orders, I almost always know how high maintenance or low key a table will be, and I will prioritize my tasks accordingly.

That being said, I do have a shameful confession to make: However good a server may be at reading people's body language, they have yet to master the art of reading people's minds. So the next time you're hoping to have a quick dinner before a 7:00 show or spend a leisurely evening catching up with an old friend, or if you have a severe aversion to red onions or soup spoons, consider biting the bullet and talking to the hired help. For a successful server, the only thing better than anticipating a customer's needs is knowing what the customer needs. Most are quite accomodating of special requests, as long as they know what those needs are.

*Please disregard the grammatical error in the sign pictured above*

What Say Ye Now, Groundhog?

Here in Chicago, outlandish weather forecasts are not at all uncommon among the local news stations. In fact, a rush-hour flurry or a sudden downpour is usually all it takes for meteorologists to cut in to the evening's top stories with "breaking news" of the (usually obvious) precipitation affecting portions of the viewing area, and to dispatch rookie reporters to the lake front and expressway overpasses to confirm that-- "live, from outside"-- the white stuff that's hitting my window is, in fact, snow.

So when forecasters began making their catastrophic storm predictions last week, I tuned in to Chicago's Very Own, WGN, to see what my buddy Tom Skilling had to say. He is by far the most level-headed, non-alarmist meteorologist in the tri-state area, so as soon as I heard him calmly describe the impending blizzard as a "storm of historic proportions", I took notice. And as it turns out, he was right on the money.

In this (delightfully snarky for NPR) article posted yesterday, an Atlanta meteorologist said (in response to the "monstrous monikers" that have been attached to the megastorms of recent winters):"Just in passing, I've overheard conversations about the intensity and danger of impending storms. People refer to the storm systems by their TV names, which lets me know that being creative gets people's attention."

But since terms such as "Snowmageddon" and "Snowpocalypse" are so East Coast 2010, I'd like to present to you a medley of the Chicago versions, coined specifically for the Blizzard of 2011. Here goes!

Snowly cow! Snowtorious B.I.G. himself has descended upon the Windy City. We've learned that Mother Nature's first name is, in fact, Snowprah, and that no one was excluded from her first "Favorite Things" episode of February. In a shrieking voice, loud enough to be heard over the howling winds, she has declared that, "you get a blizzard... and "you get a blizzard... everyone gets a BLIZZZZARRRRD!" Only this time, it's not just a room full of hysterical middle-aged women in brightly colored tops who are squealing "SNOW-M-G!"; school children everywhere are overcome with joy to learn that, what started as a snowrnado last night has closed even the Chicago Public schools today. And since this blizzaster has all but crippled transportation in the city, tomorrow's not looking good, either.

It warms my heart (but not my hands) to know that residents are banding together in the wake of this snowtastrophy; in this magical time-- after the snowfall has ended but before the lawn chairs appear (to claim "dibs" on their owners' dug-out parking spaces)-- neighbors are helping neighbors clear drifts from their front doors, shovel narrow pathways for brave commuters and dog walkers, and they're also responding to all-too-literal questions of, "Dude! Where's my car?!?"

On my quiet little side street (that probably won't see a snow plow or a back hoe until sometime this weekend), the only modes of transportation I saw in the two hours I was out unearthing my car were el trains, skis, and snowshoes. Plenty of people ventured out of their homes to marvel at the mess, though, snapping pictures like tourists while trying not to lose their dogs or kids in the waist-high drifts.

I know that 48 hours from now, we'll likely be back to business as usual, cursing the city's never-fast-enough response to snow removal, screaming "oh SNOW you didn't!" at drivers who cut us off or park in a way that is considered stupid-- even for blizzard standards-- but for today, I'm going to do my best to enjoy Blizzardpalooza 2011.

And as for the groundhog... I saw Punxsutawney Phil on the news, smugly predicting an early spring for those out east. Closer to home, our resident rodent in Woodstock, Illinois, wouldn't even come out. Groundhog's day was cancelled. What's that supposed to mean? My guess is that it doesn't bode well for any of us Chicagoans... well, except for maybe the meteorologists.

That's the Ticket!

It seems that the days of raising children to be "seen and not heard" are long gone. When parents take their kids out in public these days, many of the considerate and courteous gestures of yore-- such as removing a screaming infant from a crowded room, requiring older children to use their "indoor voices", or keeping youngsters of all ages within arm's reach and out of harm's way-- are now a rarity. In this uber-PC age where the threat of a parental reprimand being misconstrued by an overly sensitive (and nosy) onlooker as abuse is an unfortunate (albeit unlikely) reality. And in their quest not to come across as being too strict, some parents fail to discipline their children at all, at least not where others can see.

Since the restaurant where I work prides itself on being especially family friendly, we see countless examples of lax parenting each and every day. While the offenses range from the merely annoying to the downright appalling, the restaurant's owners have long warned us not to speak up unless the child's actions or behaviors have crossed that not-so-fine line between impolite to unsafe. Apparently, the only thing more taboo than being a too-strict parent is being the person to call out the irresponsible ones.

In my experience, even the most polite request to keep a child seated puts parents immediately on the offensive; say something reprimanding to the errant kid directly, and the parental reaction is even worse. When I can't immediately locate or identify a parent of the child who dumped an entire basket of suckers on the floor or who is crawling under the tables of some none-too-pleased guests on the other side of the restaurant, my favorite response is to crouch down and say-- as cheerfully yet loudly as possible-- "Hi! Where are your parents?" That's usually enough to make a red-faced mom or dad to get up and retrieve their child. The bartender gets a similar effect by staring down the oblivious parents from across the restaurant, but I can't make myself look as intimidating as he does.

The thing is, unrestrained children cause more than just a mildly annoying disruption in a busy restaurant. The waitstaff wants to keep all of their tables happy, and the kid problem has gotten to the point where many repeat customers will stay away from the restaurant altogether at certain times of day, or they'll cut their visit short when their desire for a second drink or dessert is trumped by their desire to get away from the screaming child at the next table. That hurts our bottom line, and it was somehow determined that it takes roughly 4 children to replace the revenue generated by one adult patron. We don't want to lose those customers; they tend to have larger tabs and are usually better behaved.

And the safety issue should go without saying... yet it remains an issue. The waitstaff has to move quickly, and often with an armload of heavy plates or trays of glasses, which makes it hard (if not impossible) to see what's directly underfoot. Kids that are running unaccompanied through the restaurant are in danger of getting stepped on, and if the collision is hard enough to make the server trip, fall, or drop what they're carrying, the kid is in danger of getting crushed, scalded, cut, or worse. Were that worst-case scenario ever to materialize, what was previously just parental irresponsibility instantly becomes restaurant liability. That's never a good thing.

So what's a people-pleasing business like ours to do? With our "New Year's Resolution" to keep all of our customers "safe and happy", we may have found just the thing... the Golden Ticket! The idea is so simple, yet (so far) so effective that, to quote our esteemed former governor, we've "got this thing... and it's bleeping golden!"

Here's the premise: the families that embody what we feel "family dining" is all about are eligible to receive a Golden Ticket (a la Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory) for a percentage off their next meal. We cited actions such as staying seated, not running, and using "indoor voices" as some of the ways families could earn this ticket. The ticket itself is incentive enough for the little ones (I've never heard so many unprompted "pleases" and "thank yous" from the under-12 crowd!), while the discount compels parents to actively enforce these rules and encourage good manners. The kids learn how to behave in a restaurant, the parents save money, the other patrons can dine in relative peace, and we're off the hook for many avoidable catastrophes: in short, everybody wins!

This program is, by far, the best and most effective solution to this problem that I've ever encountered. What do you think? Will the good behavior last? Is there a better model out there? If so, I'd love to hear it... just be sure to tell me about it in your "inside voice"!

The Moth: SCARS

Memory is a funny thing, and early childhood memories in particular. I vividly remember falling out of a moving car at age four, but if my parents and relatives hadn't later recountedto me what they remember most from that fateful day, I wouldn't be able to give you a firsthand account of one of the most monumental events of my pre-school years. Even though the grownups in my life helped flesh out and give shape to my own spotty memories from that time, I can tell my version of the story in a way no one else can because, after all, I'm the one with the (mainly emotional) scars to prove it.

I was in my pajamas and on my way to the gas station with my dad. Mom was home bathing my little sister and making last-minute preparations for our flight to California later that evening. The gas station was just up the road, so Dad let me sit in the front seat of our forest-green two-door Chevy Impala. This was a Very Big Deal. Naturally, I had to check out all of the fun Front Seat Things that I could not access from my little brown booster seat with the reddish-orange harness in back where I was usually confined (which, as it turns out, was for good reason). Fun things like air vents, the glove compartment, and the door handle.

So many moving parts... I let my imagination run wild! I was moving the door handle back and forth, pretending to ring a bell, and I remember thinking that, since it was such a big handle, it was probably for a really big bell. So I grabbed it with both hands and pulled, and the heavy passenger side door swung open, and for the briefest of moments, I was flying.

And then I fell.

I tumbled out of the car onto the gravelly cinders on the shoulder of the frontage road just as my dad had slowed to make a left turn into the gas station. I later learned that he jumped out of the car so fast that he almost forgot to put it in park. I don't remember being scooped up off the side of the road or being presented (bloodied and crying) to my hysterical mother back home, but apparently I was given my second bath of the evening as mom took stock of my wounds. They must have looked pretty superficial, as my parents decided it best to bandage up my knee (so I wouldn't bloody my fresh pair of PJs, as it might alarm the stewardesses) and off we went on the red-eye to California.

The next thing I remember is the smell of bleach and tongue depressors as we entered the hospital in Berkley. My uncle had driven me and my mom there so I could get my knee checked out, because it was stiff from the flight and it was hard for me to walk. I guess the doctors were confused as to how a toddler who fell out a car in Illinois had wound up in a California hospital the next day, so mom tried to explain our unusual predicament. But you know how, sometimes, the more you try to explain something, the worse it winds up sounding? That must have been what happened, because the doctors went from confused to suspicious and started asking more questions, which prompted my uncle to emphatically interject "I'm not the father!" into the conversation every few minutes or so, which likely didn't help.

Eventually, though, the doctors were satisfied with her explanation of my injuries (which turned out not to be serious) and we were allowed to leave. After he finished wrapping my knee in an Ace bandage, the doctor-- in what I'm sure was meant to be an attempt to cheer me up-- offered me a ride out to the car in an actual wheelchair! Instead, I got scared by mention of the wheelchair-- I had seen one on the way in. The man who was sitting in it was glumly eating greyish-green peas from a tray of food that had been set before him. Of course, I took this to mean that eating yucky peas was a prerequisite for riding in a wheelchair, and instead opted to have my uncle (who is not my father) carry me out to the car.

Thankfully, children are reslilient by design. During this tenuous time of learning right from wrong and discovering the consequences of certain actions, maybe it's best that kids are quick to forget. After all, if we remembered every bad choice and stupid mistake we ever made, in full detail, we'd likely all be scarred for life!

The Moth: StorySLAM!

As a long-time fan of The Moth podcast, I was beyond geeked to find out that The Moth hosts live Story Slams in Chicago on the last Tuesday of each month, at Martyr's, which is just down the street from me! Live story telling doesn't strike me as being hugely popular in this day and age, so I assumed my friends and I would be in the company of a few socially awkward guys with bad skin playing chess or D & D at a corner table. Boy was I wrong! As verified by the people waiting in the line that stretched out the door, the hipster crowd has latched onto anything and everything NPR, which makes these Story Slams a very cool and incredibly trendy way to spend a Tuesday night.

Each month, The Moth people choose a theme, which has to somehow figure into every story told. Anyone can sign up to tell a story, and of those volunteers, ten people are chosen at random. Every story is recorded and audience members can volunteer to judge, rating the stories on a scale from 1-10. The winner goes on to participate in regional (and possibly even national!) competitions. So as not to extend the event into the wee hours of the morning, a time limit is set for each story teller, replete with 60- and 30-second warning tones, giving the performer ample time to wrap up their yarn.

The topic that evening was SCARS, and the stories ran the gamut: physical, emotional, metaphorical. Aside from one last-minute sign-up, every story teller was well rehearsed, well prepared, and remarkably polished. Some tales were sad, some were hysterical, and one was even kind of raunchy, but they all tied in to the given topic. As I listened, laughed, gasped, and applauded wildly, I realized how much story telling was like writing. The strongest stories had a powerful introduction and a hook that drew listeners in right away. They were well structured, concise, dynamic, and had a concrete ending. The best story tellers were able to bring the tale full circle, and used facial expressions and vocal inflections (two perks not found in printed stories) to their undeniable benefit.

At my friends' urging, I toyed with the idea of signing up to tell a story. Having not known the theme beforehand, though, I decided against it. As the night went along, I became more and more convinced that I can tell my stories better in writing than I could in front of a microphone. Most of humanity can be divided into one of two camps: the Thinkers or the Doers. I identify more with the former. As a musician, this division is referred to as the Classically Trained and the Improvisers. I'm a Classical gal through and through. Put a piece of music on my stand, and with a little practice, I can play just about anything. Ask me to make something up on the spot, and I crumble. Other people I know are brilliant improvisers, but struggle to breathe life into a page full of notes. For me, story telling is a lot like music making; I need the ink on the page, to see the structure before me, and to practice the more difficult passages.

In short, you probably won't hear me on The Moth or at a jazz band concert, or any other improvised event. Although I have plenty of stories to tell, they won't be in that format. But if you're interested in my take on the scars theme, read on-- I'll be posting my (written) version very soon!

Photo Credit: Danielle Deschaine

Say WHAT?

I've never been one to have an instant comeback for a snarky or incendiary comment... I usually think of the perfect retort just as the other person is walking away. Since I began waiting tables, though, I've found it's even harder to further a conversation with a patron who says something so outlandish, off-the-wall, or just plain nasty that I don't know what to say... I just know that they're expecting a response. If I say nothing, it's usually interpreted as rudeness on my part, even though I'm often left feeling more bewildered than anything else.

After years of experience, I've gotten much better at coming up with generic, unoffensive answers on the spot. But every once in a while, a customer will say something so far out, that I'm left nearly speechless. I can usually worm my way out of the most impossible of conversations either by parroting back a portion of what they just said, or by laughing nervously and cheerfully telling them I'll be right back with their drinks/silverware/whatever as I'm backing away.

Aside from the occasional cantankerous old man who winds up in my section, one table in particular fills me with dread every time they walk in the door. An innocuous-looking couple in their mid-forties, they seem perfectly benign... until the husband places his drink order:

"Is your water filtered, or do you just get it from that spigot over there?" he once asked, nodding to the hose attachment a few feet away from their table on the patio.

"It is filtered, but I'd be happy to get you some tap water if you would prefer!" I told him cheerfully.

And on another occasion, he said, "I'd like a chilled glass with my beer. Do you think you can manage to bring me a clean one?"

"That's... that's always the goal!" I chirped, hoping my smile didn't look too forced.

His wife, as mousy as he is arrogant, has perfected the nervous laugh/apologetic smile combination, and giggles shrilly every time I have to bring them something. They don't frequent the establishment often enough to be considered regulars, but I've waited on them enough to know that they like their (filtered) water without ice, and their salad dressings on the side. When he's not in the mood for a salad, however, the conversation quickly devolves:

"What brand of Veggie Burgers do you serve?" he once queried. When I told him, he gave a disgusted sigh and said, "never mind. I'll just eat meat."

"Excellent choice, sir!" I beamed.

Then, during a rare morning shift, I was met with: "If I get toast, will it be toasted evenly on each side?"

Almost relieved, I quickly tailored a generic answer from the standard collection of server catch phrases: "Our chefs are quite adept, but if your 9-grain isn't toasted to your liking, I'd be happy to get you something else!"

Judging from his demeanor during these confrontations-- I mean, conversations-- it's pretty clear that he thinks he's being funny; it's a pity I don't subscribe to his brand of humor. His wife is quick to laugh at all the right times, though-- her tittering has become a near-involuntary response.

Once, the salad she ordered came out wrong-- it had onions even though she had asked for none. When I went to check on them, I saw the error and-- following standard server protocol-- I apologized and offered to get it fixed. She politely refused, opting to pick them off herself. Which was fine, until her husband chimed in with some disparaging remark about how she was the one who was always such a difficult customer.

"Women," he scoffed, shaking his head then looking to me for validation as his wife's laugh track started up again.

I balked momentarily, then smiled apologetically at the wife as I repeated, "Women!" I mirrored his head shake, and with a helpless shrug I joined in with his wife's shrill laughter. Content with my response, he turned his attention back to his non-veggie burger. And before he could say anything else, I gave his wife one more sympathetic look and scurried away.