Hands Off My Hoagie!

Can someone please tell me why the employees at the White Bridge Jersey Mikes do not wear gloves? Why does the guy who stands over the counter, writing my order with a pen that inevitably has been in someone’s mouth, then reach into the cooler and handle the turkey that is going on my sandwich? No gloves, no hand washing, nothing! He tosses the meat onto the slicer, catching the shreds of turkey in his bare hand before placing them on my bread that he already man handled in the same process. I stand there trying not to think about where his hands have been, wondering if I can muster up the appetite to even eat now. With his job done, he slides my sandwich on to the next person in line, a young girl who bare-handedly grabs my sandwich and starts tossing on tomatoes and lettuce. “What else?” she asks. How about some mustard and sanitizing gel? After wrapping up my germ-laden sandwich, she turns and operates the register, touching money, along with the hands of every previous owner of those bills and coins. I pick up my diseased meal and watch as the process is repeated with no sink visits and no trips to the glove box sitting in obvious sight behind the counter. Why didn’t I eat at home?

Singles and Showers

I just realized the title of this entry could be misleading. Before you jump to conclusions, let me clarify that this is not about bathtub brothels. Though that would be an interesting piece, I surprisingly have no experience on the matter.

Instead, I would like to openly and honestly discuss an issue that has long needed to be addressed. Over the years, I have consistently discussed it in circles of single friends- each of us bearing the burden of guilt over the emotional turmoil of it all. That ends today. Today, the milk gets spilled. The diaper rash is revealed and no amount of Desitin can relieve the burning truth that single women DO NOT enjoy baby showers.

This is where our married with children friends are offended. WHAT? You don’t enjoy discussions about pacifiers, butt paste, and non-drip bottle nipples? Shockingly, NO… we don’t. We don’t enjoy sitting in circles with a group of moms discussing breast-feeding, while passing around baby paraphernalia that only reminds us of how very single and childless we are. The moms discuss ergonomic rattle handles and with each shake of the rattle, all we can hear is the ticking of our biological clock… that, and the crackling of our drying uterus.

But we continue to go, putting on happy faces as we unroll those six sheets of toilet paper to wrap around our pregnant friend, while sticking a few in our pockets for the cry fest we’ll have later. We pretend it’s the most fun we’ve had all weekend when honestly, most of us would rather be home in our pjs, on the couch, eating cereal and watching reruns of the Golden Girls. Yeah, it’s THAT much fun. But, we are called to “rejoice with those who rejoice,” so we sit, and laugh, and smile, and “ooooh” and “awwww,” waiting for a break when we can go to the bathroom and check the vertical drop from the window.

Guilt is often our motivator for attending. Tacky…inconsiderate…selfish…a bad friend- all labels we fear being branded if we don’t attend. And I’m talking about the showers of personal friends, not mere acquaintances. I’ll be honest, if I don’t hang out with you on a social basis- odds are, I’m not coming to your baby shower. Don’t invite me. Why do people do this? I continually get invited to weddings and baby showers of people I hardly know. Just for the record, I’m not that nice. I understand these people may be trying to be considerate by inviting me, lest my feelings are hurt by being excluded- but seriously, do me the favor. I’d much rather have my two hours, good mood, and twenty dollars.

I realize one day my tacky, guiltless, and insensitive self will be one of these married, pregnant women- and what friends I have who are still single will willingly sacrifice themselves on the baby shower altar on my behalf. They’ll attend my shower with hugs, smiles and well wishes, bearing the most amazing gifts with the cutest wrapping (are you taking notes?) and they’ll pretend there is no other place they’d rather be on a Saturday morning. The difference? I will understand the emotional façade. The liquor will be in the bathroom closet, girls!

A Family Affair

We don’t have family heirlooms in my family, but I’ve always liked the idea. A sentimental or valuable trinket from the past, serving as a continual reminder of those who have gone before us. Perhaps great aunt Effie’s cameo necklace, great grandfather’s pocket watch or pipe, mawmaw’s snuff can (sometimes it’s the little things), a mummified baby you keep on the bureau. Oh, how I wish I were kidding!

And I thought burial or cremation were my only options!

Diet Diary- Entry #1

Dear Diary,
Today is the second day of my new diet and fitness plan and already I feel discouraged. I weigh the same as I did yesterday and I’m beginning to wonder if the hours of discipline are really worth it. I’m curious- how long should I wait before rewarding my discipline with say…. oh… a piece of cake? I should probably wait another day or so to see how it goes I guess. I’m also beginning to think that I should exercise. I don’t want people calling me a fitness fanatic, so I think I’ll ease into that. I'm drinking more water, but I need to find out if carbonation, high fructose corn syrup, caramel color, phosphoric acid, natural flavors, and caffeine affect the nutritional value.

Food, Fitness, and a Fear of Failure

I have a new goal- I’m going to be fit. Well, maybe it’s not a “new” goal since I have tried it once before. Or twice. Or several times, but who’s counting. My point is, I’m recommitting. I put some thought into it this morning as I was doing some lunges. Okay, technically I was stretching out my jeans, but let’s not get caught up on details. In order to clearly define this goal, I think it’s important to recognize what it does not mean. It does not mean that I will obsess about my body. Not wanting to cry and go for a drink after pants shopping would be a good start though. And, by “fit” I don’t mean skinny. Britney Spears will never be classy and I will never be skinny. Some things just aren’t meant to be. So, what do I mean by “fit”? For starters, I’d like to be able to run around the softball field without needing oxygen. Pulling that tank around the bases really slows me down, plus it makes me look silly. Basically, I’d like to feel stronger, leaner, and less depressed when I shop for pants. This may also help me drink less. These are the goals I will keep before me. And, as with any goal, baby steps are important on the road to achievement. Baby step #1- I will stop eating M&Ms on the way to the gym. Baby step #2- I will stop getting french fries at Wendy’s when I leave the gym. For the past month, I tried not going to the gym in order to change these habits, but I don’t think that was the most effective approach. I also think accountability is key to success. I will consider the shame and humiliation of failure after having blogged about my goal as enough motivation. I’ll keep you posted in a new series of blog entries titled “My Diet Diary.”

Odd Encounters - #1

As I was leaving the produce section of Kroger today (this is where you take note of my healthy shopping habits), I stopped my cart abruptly before a head on crash with a seedy looking man, who's picture I would imagine being posted on the Sex Offenders Registry.

“Ladies first,” he said politely.

“Thank you,” I smiled and proceeded.

“Want to hear a story?” he asked from behind me.

“Um, sure?” I sensed this was a rhetorical question and the story was coming just the same. I stopped and turned around.

“There is this young girl who works in my office with me. One day we had a similar thing happen and I let her go first. She didn’t say ‘thank you’ like you did. You know what she said?”

The suspense was killing me. I nodded.

“She said, ‘you’re awesome sweety'.”

I stood there with a blank look on my face, obviously confused.

“Did you want me to say ‘you’re awesome sweety’ instead of ‘thank you’,” I asked.

“No, no. I just thought you’d like to hear a story.”

Huh. I think I’m still confused.

A Tipping Point

I believe in tipping people who provide me with an “extra” service. A bellhop who carries my bags, a valet (not that I ever use valet), a waiter who continually comes to my table to serve my needs and meet my requests- these are all valid opportunities to tip. I’m not opposed. I could indeed carry my own bags, or park my own car, or eat some place where I can serve myself. In these instances, I am tipping someone to do something for me.

I’ve always thought of myself as a relatively generous tipper. To me, a tip is a gesture of gratitude- a “reward” of sorts for going beyond the standard duty. That’s why I’m confused about the sudden expectation to tip anyone who’s working. I’m talking about the tip jars on the counter at Moe’s, at Baja, at any given coffee house. Am I missing something? These are places where we are at the counter getting our own food/drink. No one is coming to our table. If we need something, we have to get up and get it. Why are we tipping these people to do their jobs (prepare our food/drink)? Isn’t that the purpose of a paycheck? We don’t tip the cook at a restaurant. But, there the tip jars sit, beckoning our change at the register- exposing us to shame if we don’t contribute. We somehow feel like we give those friendly faces the shaft if we don’t tip them. What will the people in line behind us think if we don’t? Cheapskate. Once again, guilt prevails and we are manipulated into acting without considering the reasoning. We have to live with being a cheapskate or a sucker. Which will you choose?

Wonderful World of Talent

No Habla Espanol

The following is a conversation that I have on a weekly basis with my friend Tammy.

My phone rings.

“Hola, Senorita Suggs.” (That’s how I have her creatively stored in my phone.)

“Hola, chica. Como estas?”

*Silence

“Uhhh… umm… (insert a light snicker)…. Hmmmm.”
*More silence
“Why do you do that?! You know I don’t speak Spanish!”

Ringing Thoughts in My Head

As I sat in my car at the drive-thru at Mrs. Winners, I read the note beside the roped bell. “Ring Bell if Your Service Was Great,” it suggested.

My arm moved… wait a minute, that’s stupid. I stopped. I feel manipulated. I hate manipulation. Are they counting on my guilt? Maybe I don’t feel like ringing the dumb bell. Is this some kind of experiment to see how many people will ring the bell? I’m not falling for that. Even if my service was great, I don’t want someone telling me how to respond… what to do. I just want my chicken, no side of guilt or manipulation please.

I drive away.

Should I have rung the bell? Did the girl at the window get her feelings hurt because I didn’t? Maybe she gets tired of having that bell rung in her ear (assuming others are more easily manipulated). What if she thinks I thought she didn’t provide good service? Dang it, why didn’t I ring the bell? Maybe I should just stop eating fried chicken- then I wouldn’t have to worry about guilt or my expanding waistline. Let’s not get drastic… next time I'll just ring the damn bell.

Circle K and a Difference of Opinion

First, let me say that I’m not opposed to rules. I’m generally a rule follower, unless of course my pride leads me to conclude that any such rule is utterly ridiculous and by such realization feel no need to acknowledge it. Tonight was a similar experience. My friend “T” and I went to Bonjo Java for some reading. We carefully selected a non-sticky table on the deck, located underneath a lovely laminated sign that prohibited outside food or drink. Obviously someone’s inconsiderate decision to bring Starbuck’s coffee to Bongo Java had prompted such a prohibition, as displayed by the crossed out picture of a Starbuck’s coffee cup. Oh the irony that would have followed had that particular table not been so wobbly. We moved to another.

Bags unpacked and books lain out, I went in to buy us two Diet Cokes. I patiently waited in line to ask if they had any Diet Cokes since there were none on the cooler. Nope. They were out of Diet. As I walked outside, there it glimmered, only 30 yards away- a beacon of promised refreshment, the Circle K.- any sized fountain drink for .79 cents. If only Bongo Java had adequately stocked their drinks, I would not have been so inclined to adamantly ignore their “rules.” With two Styrofoam fountain drink cups (with straws long enough to raise a flag on- signaling our rebellion), we sat at our table next to the front door- probably not the smartest location for a rule-breaker to be on display. Beloved Hindsight.

About two thirds through my Diet Coke, or forty-minutes (depending on how you want to measure it), some man, whom I can only assume was associated with Bongo Java since he commented with such authority, said we couldn’t sit there with “those cups.” In my kind and self-justified kind of way, I informed him that I tried to purchase my Diet Coke at Bongo. It’s not that I thought their “No Outside Food or Drink” rule was stupid, I quite understood his point of view. I did, however, desire for him to understand my misinterpreted rebellion. “Well, you can’t bring something in just because we don’t have it,” he stated. “That’s like bringing in steak because we don’t serve steak.” Hmmm. I wish people would think through their examples sometimes. They serve Diet Coke. I wanted Diet Coke. They were out. I brought in my own Diet Coke. Seems simple to me. We exchanged our views. He went inside and I went back to drawing a picture of myself with grillz (don’t ask) and drinking my Diet Coke. He returned about ten minutes later, setting two clear cups on the table, stating that “those cups have to go- it’s advertising.” Finally! an argument that makes sense. Yes, I quite understand that Bongo Java patrons, approaching the door for their daily $5 cup of coffee might see our Circle K cups and suddenly say to themselves, “you know what I really want… a Circle K drink instead of Bongo Java.” Yeah, right.

The Power of Suggestion

A commercial about fried chicken; a billboard for Cinco de Mayo; the smell of grilled hamburgers wafting through the neighborhood; blogging about cake- how little it takes to convince ourselves that we “need” something. On Thursday, I wrote a short entry about cake. Fifteen minutes later, I was in the kitchen baking.
Last night, Jon and I went to Shakespeare in the Park. We picked up sandwiches from Jersey Mikes (I wasn’t even that hungry.), found a seat among the masses, and ate our dinner. The pre-show had ended and some lady got up to talk about what a wonderful benefit it was to have done these productions for the past twenty years. I started browsing through my brochure and her voice phased into a mumbling similar to the teacher on Charlie Brown as I concentrated on reading the play synopsis. I would occasionally hear phrases like “t-shirts for sale” and “donations are accepted by anyone with a bucket,” as she droned on and on. Suddenly, the word “M&Ms”. She had captured my undivided attention. Chocolate beckoned. What? I can get M&Ms at the park? I turned to Jon. “I wonder where they are selling those M&Ms.” Quickly followed by, “Okay, seriously, I don’t need M&Ms. I HAVE to stop eating.” I went back to my brochure. Our ten-minute intermission came and Jon scampered off to find a restroom while I sat and people-watched. Someone walked by with a sno-cone. They have sno-cones? I love sno-cones! Jon walked up with M&Ms in hand. There is a reason I love this man! I had the bag emptied before the intermission ended (I shared- don’t judge!). But then I was thirsty. Oh, the double-edged sword of chocolate (the other edge having something to do with my expanding hips)! I blame the M&Ms for making me get a sno-cone.