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!

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.

The Cubby Blues

It was with a mixture of sadness and morbid curiosity that I tuned in to Ron Santo's televised funeral service this morning. The icky, voyeuristic feeling I had quickly dissipated, though, when I saw that the ceremony inside Holy Name Cathedral was not a solemn act of mourning, but rather a joyous celebration of life.

Santo was the Cubs' third baseman during the 60s and early 70s, then returned to Wrigley as a color commentator for WGN radio back in the early 90s, a position he held until his passing last week. Ronny wasn't just revered for being a great player or a good teammate or a member of one of the most beloved teams in Cubs' history, and he wasn't just adored for his passionate and entertaining broadcasts with Pat Hughes. Ron Santo was an incredible person. Although his athletic abilities, broadcasting outbursts, and remarkable fundraising efforts for juvenile diabetes research were what made him nationally renowned, it was his eternal optimism and ebullient spirit that endeared him to millions.

Ron faced more adversity in his life than most, and he had the added burden of tackling these challenges in the public eye. His admission that he had type-1 diabetes (a then-debilitating disease that eventually cost him both his legs) back in the early 70s stunned the baseball world, and the disappointment that stemmed from his many failed attempts at getting into the Baseball Hall of Fame were made all too public in the 2003 documentary, This Old Cub. But despite these setbacks, Ronny always had a minute to sign an autograph for a fan, give advice or words of encouragement to kids with diabetes, and to keep in touch with the people who were important to him.

If I've gathered anything from the stories, memories, and tributes that have been pouring in to WGN and the other local news stations since word broke about his passing, it's that he made a lasting impact on everyone with whom he came into contact. It's amazing to me how much of an effect a kind word or gesture can have on someone yet how, more often than not, that impact isn't fully realized or acknowledged until after that person has passed. From the stories shared by friends, family and colleagues, to memories from people who only met him once, to fans (like me) who never met him but feel like they knew him anyway, it sounds like Ronny was more of an exception than most, but I'll bet he never knew just how many lives he touched during his 70 years on Earth.

Which got me to wondering: why do so many of us wait until someone has died to express just how much they meant to us in life? Wouldn't it be better and more meaningful to share these sentiments with a loved one or mentor while they are still living? For whatever reason, this is easier said than done, but I think that if everyone made the effort to thank just one person who helped to shape the direction of their life or aided them in a time of need, the world would be a better place.

It was this thought that prompted me to email a professor I had for a month during my freshman year of college (who probably has no memory of me whatsoever) to congratulate her on the release of her new documentary and to compliment the superb essay she had published in our latest alumni magazine. I thanked her for sharing her story and told her that it was her class that prompted me to continue learning about her research (and related areas of study). I'm not expecting a reply, but at least she knows that she got through to at least one of us back in 1997.

And as for Ronny, we Cubs fans continue to hold out hope that the MLB will honor his legacy with a posthumous induction into Cooperstown, but today, I rest assured knowing that he has entered the Great Hall of Fame in the sky, and that he's in very good company. Rest in peace, Ron Santo, for your work here is done.

Menus

Menus are great. They're glossy and visually appealing, and they pack a wealth of concise information into neatly organized columns. Menus tell whether a restaurant serves Coke or Pepsi products, give prices and ingredients for most entrees, and they also list side options as well as any related costs of substitutions or extras. The hours of operation, contact information, and restaurant policies (such as adding an automatic gratuity to large parties or charging to split an entree) are almost always listed somewhere on the menu. And although it may not be a fascinating read, it certainly is worth the while.

It's a wonder then, that more people don't take the time they're given to read the menu. I get it, though. Sometimes the restaurant can be dark. The print is too small for some, while others can't focus when they're hungry. And most people are distracted by something: their kids, their phones, or the game on TV. That's where I come in. I am paid to know the menu, inside and out. I have memorized ingredient lists and been thoroughly tested on my menu knowledge, and I can rattle off side options like a pro. I know the soups of the day, and which items are (or can be prepared) vegetarian or dairy-free. I can usually predict how long it will take for the kitchen to cook a well-done steak or a salmon fillet on a busy Friday night. And if there's a question that I don't know the answer to (like whether the breading on the chicken has an ingredient that could trigger some obscure allergy), I am happy to find out.

For the most part, I don't mind reciting burrito or salad ingredients to a table. I use the time to establish a rapport with my customers; it's like making small talk about the weather, only with food. When I am knowledgeable about the menu and can answer people's questions quickly and definitively, it reflects positively on my work ethic and overall intelligence. The only time I am not willing to list every ingredient in the kitchen is for a take-out order; people who don't know what they want then they call inevitably end up getting put on hold, because there are other people calling who do know what they'd like to eat.

I ask only two things of dine-in patrons: First, if someone at your table has a question (like what types of cheese are offered) that you would also like to know the answer to, please pay attention the first time. My willingness to rattle off sandwich toppings decreases exponentially every time I have to repeat them to the same table. And second, please don't get snippy with me when I ask follow-up questions about your order (such as how well to cook a steak). Some menu items have more options than others, and I am just trying to get your order right the first time. There's no need to be condescending, and besides-- if you're going to act like you're smarter than I am, you should at least be able to read.

Please Wait to be (Con)ceited

It's high time I get the ball rolling on one of my "bucket list" projects; I'm not getting any younger, you know! Since most of my ultimate goals involve spending a great deal of money or amassing a wealth of knowledge (to travel to far-away places or to save the planet), I've decided to start small. I've always wanted to write a book, and since I don't have the vivid imagination of a fiction writer or a novelist's patience for outlining plots and developing characters, I need to write about what I know. And right now, what I know (and have known-- off and on-- since high school) is what it's like to work in the service industry.

I know how it feels to be judged for wearing an apron, stocking shelves, and preparing food. I know what it's like to be the source of people's (usually misdirected) anger, and I've been trained to accept criticism, insults, and ridicule with a smile. I know the torment of being overqualified for the part-time positions I have held. And I know the agony of not being able to tell those who assume I'm unintelligent, that I've chosen this less-than-desirable employment because its part-time hours and ever-changing schedules are what has given me the freedom and flexibility to put myself through school and to pursue my true passions.

I believe I can provide readers with a (more or less) objective view of life as a service-industry worker. I hope to share my experiences and present my insights in a collection of essays/short stories/vignettes, and my ultimate goal would be to publish these works in book form (see [copyrighted!] working title, above). And until Congress mandates that every American citizen hold at least one job serving the public, I'd like the revelations in my book to be the next-best thing! If my stories can get even one person to think twice about the way they speak to a cashier or a waiter-- to wait to be conceited-- I will consider this endeavor to be "mission accomplished."

So in an attempt to make at least one of my dreams become a reality, many of my blog posts from here on forward will be restaurant (or retail) related. All I ask of you, my dear readers, is to tell me what works and what doesn't. Tell me what you'd like to know as well as the topics I should avoid. Don't be afraid of hurting my feelings; I've worked retail. I've waited tables. I've been trained to take even the harshest criticisms with a smile. With that said, let the food fight begin!

Random Acts of Kindness

I was standing in a dank subway stop just north of downtown and feeling a little downtrodden. I was wet and out of breath, having gotten caught in a sudden downpour. My hair was frizzing and my wool coat (a clearance-rack, TJ Maxx special) had begun to smell not unlike a wet dog. A guy with a boom box was sneaking sideways looks at me, and it seemed like the train would never come.

Suddenly, out of the crowd of bedraggled commuters, burst this impeccably dressed gay guy with a piping hot latte in one hand and his smart phone in the other. Unlike most people on public transit, he looked at me (not through me) and slowed his stride long enough to gush, "Ohmigod I love your coat! And your scarf matches it perfectly! You look fabulous!" And just as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone. He disappeared into (what was, by that time) a very crowded platform of commuters.

All it took was one unexpected compliment from a complete stranger to turn my day around. The train came-- I managed to snag a seat while boom box guy stayed on the platform-- and I no longer felt so frizzy or smelly. I'd always heard about the impact that random acts of kindness can have, and I've even tried to do some on occasion. But in the everyday drudgery of life, it's easy to forget how much a kind word or gesture can affect others. So, flattered and a little bewildered, I vowed to pay it forward before the warm, fuzzy feeling went away.

On my way home, I saw a neighbor toiling outside of the corner restaurant, replacing the fall flowers in the planters with evergreens, in anticipation of winter. "Looking good!" I chirped, smiling as I walked past. When she looked up and pushed her frizzy hair out of her eyes, her brows un-furrowed and a genuine smile spread across her face. I didn't stop to chat, but I did smile back. Then I pulled up the collar of my (fabulous) coat as I turned into the wind to block the rain, and I headed home.

With a Little Help...

While changing the sheets is a chore for most, in my home it's become a major undertaking. Not only is my queen-sized bed wedged in the corner of my tiny bedroom, I have two little helpers who love nothing more than fresh linens. In what can only be described as a near-Pavlovian response to the unremarkable sound of unfolding fabric, my two enormous tom cats come running into the bedroom and leap on top of a partially unfolded fitted sheet.

So I'll pick one up and dump him on the floor, but by the time I go to pick up the other, the first cat is right back up on the bed. This continues (with alternating cats) until one wanders off of the sheet and onto the mattress pad. I quickly pull the corner of the sheet with the other cat still on top of it, but the sudden movement causes him to pounce on the part that I am trying to stretch around a corner of the mattress, pawing furiously at the folds of fabric.

Once I have two corners secured, I steer my furry helpers toward the already-smoothed out part of the sheet. This allows me to finish attaching the bottom sheet, and puts them in perfect position for what comes next: the top-sheet application. By far their favorite part of the bed-making process, they crouch expectantly as I shake out the flat sheet. As soon as I snap it in the air and let it fall neatly over the mattress, they bound to the center of the bed and wait for the clean-smelling cloth to settle over them. It usually takes me a few tries to align the top sheet with the mattress, and the kitties think this is great fun.

Once the sheet is as even as it can be (with two moving blobs underneath, that is), I'll tuck the excess under the mattress at the foot of the bed, folding the sides into loose hospital corners. The unexplained movement of the mattress tends to spook Iggy, the larger of the two cats, and he'll shoot out from under the sheet and watch the corner-tucking from the doorway a safe distance away. It almost never fails, though, that he is distracted by a moving white blob in the middle of the bed. With a waggle of his haunches, he springs back onto the bed and pounces on the blob (a.k.a. Jack) and a tussle ensues, until the sheet is twisted enough to reveal one cat to the other. If I haven't completely tucked the sheet in before the blob attack, I have to repeat part two of my bed-making process, much to the delight of my fuzzies.

At this point, I usually walk away and do something else for a bit; the sheets aren't nearly as enticing when they're not moving. So once the cats lose interest, I'll sneak back in to straighten out the top sheet and put on the comforter. Since the pillows don't intrigue them, I usually have to add those finishing touches myself.

Without the ritual, without the fanfare, and without the help I get when changing the sheets, I could most likely accomplish this task in two minutes instead of twenty. And although it would be much easier without help, it wouldn't be nearly as much fun.

TEA PARTY!

No, I'm not referring to the patriotic East Coast revolutionaries of the 18th century, or the right-wing nut jobs claiming to be their 21st-century counterparts. I'm talking about tea. Loose-leaf tea: black, green, rooibos, oolong, you name it.

I've always been a fan of tea, but having grown up on the iced, unsweetened, Lipton variety, the demonstration and info session I attended during a food tour this summer literally blew my mind. The tour, which started in Chicago's Gold Coast and wound its way through Old Town up to Lincoln Park, took us into a small tea shop just north of the Viagra Triangle.

We each received a 20-ounce cup of an iced cranberry and mango green tea to sip while we listened to the tea guy's spiel. The tea was tasty and the guy was quite knowledgeable... long story short, I fell for his sales pitch... hook, line, and sinker.

First he showed us the contents of a typical tea bag, which is often just tea dust, the disintegrated remnants of crumbled-up tea leaves. Boo! Then he showed us a loose-leaf tea bag, and then loose-leaf tea that had been brewed in a metal tea ball. Which was better than tea dust, but (as I soon learned) still left much to be desired. Then he whipped out a contraption that looked like infomercial fare but sounded divine.

Loose-leaf tea is hard core, and only die-hards are willing to make the effort, right? Not anymore! This little doo-dad demystified loose-leaf tea for me and my fellow foodies-for-a-day. The tea leaves are measured into the plastic pitcher, and the hot water is poured in on top of that. Once brewed to the desired strength, the pitcher is set on top of a tea cup or mug, and the ball bearings on the bottom of the whatsit allow the steeped water to filter down through a sieve and into the cup, while all of the leaves remain inside of the thingie. Cool!

A side-by-side comparison of the tea leaves from the mesh ball and the tea leaves in the nifty pitcher was astounding; the leaves in the pitcher were free to rehydrate to their former size, which was nearly three times the size of the leaves in the ball and the bag. And according to tea guy, these vessels acted as tea "prisons" and wouldn't allow the tea to reach its full brewing potential. This antiquated and barbaric method of brewing loose-leaf teas also prohibited it from achieving its full flavor potential, too.

It wasn't long before I joined in the chants of "free the tea!" and, once the tour was over and we were free to shop, we returned to the Gold Coast and each bought the requisite amount of tea that allowed us to use our 75% off coupon on a thing-a-ma-jig of our very own. I am confident that this was money well spent; I have brewed more loose-leaf tea this summer since, well, EVER. I guess I am officially a card-carrying member of the loose-leaf tea party!

Lost in Translation

I was sorting through a box of miscellaneous photos this afternoon, and stumbled upon a slip of paper upon which I had written two words: Pharmacy Buddha. Pharmacy Buddha? Eventually I remembered the context in which I originally thought I had heard the phrase; from our personal Chinese tour guide as we were walking through a museum of sorts within either the Lama Temple or The Temple of Heaven in Beijing last fall.

Overly knowledgeable but not-quite fluent, our guide's rapid-fire delivery of historic tidbits, Mandarin pronouns, and trivia information had sent my brain into fact overload on more than one occasion. Adding to my confusion was the utter foreignness of his accent to my Western ear; his pronunciation of some English words sounded quite like other words in our language, albeit with altogether different meanings. I scurried through the Forbidden City on the first day of our trip with a mental note to check his story about the Dragon Lady and her husband's mistress who she fed to a whale, as it sounded eerily familiar to the fate of Jonah (of Biblical fame), until he showed us what he was talking about. Dragon Lady stuffed her husband's mistress down a well, which was still unfortunate, but made a lot more sense.

Even though I don't remember doing so, I must have jotted down "Pharmacy Buddha" as we were peering through the glass at the menagerie of fat, happy, squinty-eyed religious icons on display. He kept referencing the "Pharmacy Buddha", so there must have been some significance to that particular incarnation of the famous deity, but try as I might, I couldn't find any connection between what I was hearing and what I was seeing. None of the figurines was holding a pill bottle or a mortar and pestle or anything, so then I began to wonder whether the ancient Chinese made Buddhas the same way we make Barbies. Barbie-- who, according to Mattel, has had 125 careers and counting-- is a Jane of all trades. So if there is a Pharmacy Buddha, is there not also a Park Ranger Buddha, a Helicopter Pilot Buddha, a Veterinarian Buddha?

A Google search of the phrase turned up quite a few interesting results, but none that even came close to corroborating our guide's story. So what was the significance of the Pharmacy Buddha? Unless one of my religiously diverse friends (with an ear for loosely related cognates) cares to venture a guess, I suppose I'll never know.

To Space or Not to Space?

It's amazing what a difference a space makes! This Redbox kiosk stopped me in my tracks early this morning. I stopped by Walgreen's on my way to work, and in my defense, I wasn't fully awake, but it took me the better part of a minute to figure out what the instructions were telling me. Had this vending machine of DVD rentals suddenly become multi-functional? Is there even a demand to rent the other item they were suddenly offering? I couldn't imagine that there was... I know first-hand that renting has its perks, but some items are just more practical to own. And, call me crazy, but sunscreen is one of those things I prefer to outright own.

If your neurons haven't already made the same faulty connection that mine did, I've zoomed in on the instructions that had me so confused. It wasn't until after my logical side rejected my too-literal initial thought that I figured out they had labeled the sun screen, the mini-shade that protected the computer screen below from the damaging rays of the sun. Phew. That's apparently too much for this grammarian to process on a Tuesday morning!

Where Have all the Blue Crayons Gone?

As I near the end of my fifth summer waiting tables at a family-friendly (perhaps overly kid-friendly) neighborhood restaurant, I find myself pondering the crayon situation. Like many restaurants, we provide paper place mats and a four-pack of Crayolas to the under-twelve crowd, a feeble attempt to keep the kids entertained and in their seats in an age where fewer and fewer parents feel responsible for doing this themselves. In recent years, we've made an effort to reuse the crayons we hand out, tossing the unbroken colored wax sticks into little pails, which we loan out and then recollect at the end of each table's meal.

Despite these Crayola conservation efforts, we still lose a fair amount of crayons to the everyday wear and tear of restaurant life. Crayons that have been broken, chewed on, ground into the carpet, or melted under a hot plate or an extended stay on the patio are removed from the rotation and tossed out.

What baffles me, though, is how we always seem to have a shortage of blue crayons. No matter how many times we stock the little pails with fresh crayons, filling each with an equal number of colors, the blue crayons are always the first to disappear. Are blue crayons more susceptible to breaking? Are they used more often than the other colors? Is there a demand for blue crayons on the juvenile black market?

Whatever the reason, all I know is that once the blue crayons are gone, the red and the green aren't far behind. Which leaves us with-- you guessed it-- pails full of yellow crayons. And no kid wants a bucket full of yellow crayons. This is why I've taken it upon myself to oversee the regular stocking of the crayon pails, because there's nothing worse than having a section full of children and a wait list half a page deep and being taken to task by a four-year old because they don't want to color the sky yellow. Not that I blame them, but still.

So in the interest of crayon equality, I encourage children everywhere to use all of the colors equally. Their world will be brighter because of it, and not so blue.

Potato Mashing FAIL

I don't know what it is about mashing potatoes that is so difficult for me, but I've managed to fail at yet another attempt to recreate this creamy, buttery, All-American comfort food. My troubles with mashed potatoes began back in grad school. Potatoes were cheap, so I ate them frequently. Feeling adventurous, I attempted a basic variation of this dietary staple, using the only tool I had available at the time; an old-fashioned hand mixer. I stuck it in the pot of freshly boiled potatoes, watery milk, and oily margarine, and turned the hand crank. With a "ca-CHUNK", I managed to shoot potato bits all over my gloomy afterthought of a kitchen, leaving little but a milky, buttery gruel in my garage-sale sauce pan.

Fast forward ten years. I have a bright, spacious kitchen, decent culinary skills, full-sized appliances, brand-name pots and pans, and more kitchen gadgets than I know what to do with. Among those gadgets is a bonafide potato masher. It is made by a reputable American company, and this specialized utensil's only purpose is to-- as the name implies-- mash potatoes. So I boiled up a pot of locally grown, farm share potatoes, added fresh cream and pure, unsalted butter, and began to mash.

As I mashed, I noticed with horror that the potatoes weren't blending at all, but rather, aerating--squeezing up through the holes of the specialized gadget in an oddly disturbing shape. Was I making potato worms? No... it was more like... aerated potato turds.

A true Midwestern girl, I like my potatoes any way you slice 'em. Except for, apparently, in turd form. So I quickly abandoned the masher and-- before I had a chance to dwell too much on the sight and gross myself out-- took a fork to the mess. I'll be sticking to baked potatoes from now on, so if any of you are looking for a handy-dandy potato aerator, stay tuned, as it will be available soon in a central-Illinois garage sale near you!

Flakes on a Train

Having lived in Chicago for the better part of a decade, my view of the city's bright lights and gleaming skyscrapers has dimmed and dulled. Instead of shopping and sightseeing, I spend the better part of most days working and sitting in traffic or on transit. So I couldn't help but smile when I overheard snippets of phone conversations on the Amtrak this morning. I was heading to St. Louis, surrounded by a group of teenage girls from nowheresville, Missouri. They thoroughly enjoyed their trip and were eager to share the highlights with their friends and relatives back home. To the people on the other end of their wireless connection, they gushed:

"The restaurant we went to was so fancy, they actually took reservations!"
"I'm gonna save up my money so that, when I come back, I can rent a Segway!"
"They put an awful lot of stuff on their hot dogs!"
"Cirque Shanghai was more like a show than a circus, cuz it didn't have any animals."
"That car I saw from the Sky Deck was a Transformers car! They're filming the actual movie right in the middle of downtown, and I saw the set!"
"The Macy's stores have multiple floors here! Like, more than two!"
"Did you know that you can see Michigan and Indiana from Navy Pier?"

Ah, how I long to be wide-eyed and wondrous again, to be able to see this city through the eyes of a teenage tourist.