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.
Monday, September 17, 2007
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?
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?
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Sunday, September 9, 2007
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!”
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
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.
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.
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