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.