The Ordinary and the Extraordinary

I watched a heartwarming follow-up segment on last evening's news about the man who rescued the stray dog that was running through rush hour traffic on the Stevenson last week. Viewers all over the tri-state area had watched the morning news in horror an fascination as the "sky-cam" streamed continuous live coverage of the terrified animal that could be seen darting between vehicles and evading the State Police as they ran through the median and tried to capture it. The dog had since received a bath, veterinary care, food, shelter, and a lot of love, and transformation was nothing short of amazing.

I see these news stories every so often-- dozens of animals rescued from a hoarding situation, a bag of kittens that were thrown from a moving car, gut-wrenching photos of injured pit bulls that police officers removed from a dog-fighting ring-- and am always astounded by the flood of people who respond. Throngs of compassionate viewers step forward to offer everything from well wishes and donations to a loving, permanent home.

It's not hard to understand why people react; an ordinary animal finds itself in an extraordinary situation through no fault of its own, and the media presents the story in a way that is meant to tug on the heartstrings. And it works. While I'm so grateful for the good Samaritans who do respond, I can't help but wonder: what about the hundreds upon thousands of extraordinary animals with ordinary stories that are languishing in our area shelters?

It's hard to sensationalize the plight of a dog that was surrendered by its owners because they lost their home or a cat that was abandoned after its owner died, because there are thousands of creatures just like it that fell victim to the same unfortunate circumstances. However, that doesn't make it any less worthy than the animal that appeared on the evening news.



The challenge for shelters everywhere is to publicize and promote their adoptable animals in a way that prompts the same passionate and visceral reaction that these occasional news stories do. While many try-- they post personal profiles for each animal in their care, using the power of anthromorphization to show just how much these deserving creatures need a home of their own-- they just don't get the same exposure as the rogue pup who brought the Stevenson to a standstill.

I would love to find a way to get these pet personals to the masses in a manner that continues to resonate long after people look away from the pictures of the hopeful, pleading eyes staring up at them. I can't help but fantasize about writing a news story so moving that it would prompt hordes of people to flock to their nearest shelter and wait in lines stretching down the block (like at Hot Doug's on a Saturday) for the privilege of adopting one of these extraordinary animals. Just imagine... if we could match every person who was willing and able to welcome a pet into their family with a loving pet that needed a family, what a wonderful world this would be.

The Postcard

In my first year of freelancing, I took any gig that was offered. Among the stranger concerts was at a tiny college in Nowheresville, Indiana, on which I played second English horn. The instrumentation was strange because it's rare to have even one English horn in an ensemble, let alone two, but who am I to question Bach?

 

At any rate, the concert turned out great, and once the check cleared, I forgot all about it. Until, that is, the day my roommate walked through the front door with a stack of mail. She began flipping through it, then suddenly shrieked and flung the pile of envelopes across the room. Startled, I asked her what was wrong (thinking there was a bug or a booger or something on one of the bills). She looked at the pile, looked at me, and started laughing hysterically. The eye-watering, gasping-for-air kind of laugh that is reserved for only the funniest of events, which generally does not include parcel posts. I couldn't for the life of me imagine what had caused that kind of reaction... until I began picking up the mail.

 

Tucked neatly between a ComEd bill and a take-out menu, was a picture of ME. Not just any picture, mind you, but a candid of me playing the English horn. On a postcard. Fellow double reed players will be quick to concur that NOBODY looks good while playing the oboe. The English horn only amplifies this unfortunate fact. I gaped at this horrible self-image, dumbfounded, while my roommate giggled helplessly on the floor.

 

Someone clearly thought the picture was worth transferring onto heavy card stock and sending to me, but why? When it finally occurred to me to turn the card over and hide the hideous image, I was stunned to see it was from the tiny college where I had played the month before. Scrawled on the back was a brief note from the concert organizer: "Our photographer captured this image of you. Thought you might enjoy!" Enjoy?!? What was there to enjoy? The harsh way the flash bounced off my translucent-looking skin? The flared nostril? The angry red zit on my first chin, not to mention the two consecutive chins I had as a result of blowing into that unfortunate instrument? I was horrified, and avoided the mailman for months.

Because (and only because) my face had never graced a postcard before, I decided to keep the offensive piece of mail. I shoved it into a box of documents, and promptly tried to erase the image of the macabre greeting card from my memory. And I had largely succeeded... until now. Rummaging through the same box, I found it again all these years later, and gasped in horror, as shocked as I was nearly a decade ago. I can laugh about it now, but am comforted only by the fact that my English horn playing sounds much better than it looks.

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!