Signs that I am clearly too invested in television and may quite possibly be delusional

This morning I read that Stanley Kamel, the actor who plays Dr. Charles Kroger on the tv series Monk, had died. If you haven’t ever seen the show, Dr. Kroger is the therapist to Adrian Monk (Tony Shalhoub), a private investigator suffering from a nearly debilitating case of obsessive compulsive disorder. My first reaction upon reading this news should have been a bit of sadness for Mr. Kamel and his family, or if I spent more time doing important things and less watching television, my first reaction should have been “Who?”

However, I am ashamed to report that the first thing that popped into my mind was how horrible it was going to be for Monk.

No, not for Tony Shalhoub. For Adrian Monk. The fictional television character.

Indie Bloggers

If you don't already know about the following site, well, you've been missing out on a lot. On the other hand, you'll have a great deal of wonderful writing to fill your day once you follow this link and check out the archives.

And somehow, amazingly, one of my previous posts was chosen for today. And no, it's not the one about bird poop.

What I did on my spring vacation

So I’ve just spent the better part of a week in bed with the death (or as others might speak of it, ‘the flu’). It was made especially delightful by the fact that the kid was also sick. And even more so by the fact that grocery shopping was on my to-do list, so when we finally emerged from bed and felt like maybe we could eat something, our options were expired cottage cheese, the moldy ends of a loaf of bread, or five strawberry Jolly Ranchers. I let my son have the Jolly Ranchers (I can’t believe they haven’t given me “Mother of the Year” yet).

I arrived back at work just in time for spring break, which students and faculty have off, but for which staff must be present. This would be annoying except for the fact that I can get a lot of work done when it’s so quiet around here.

For example:

9:22 am – I arrive over an hour late, for no reason in particular. Five minutes later, my coworker buzzes to ask if she missed anything. Apparently she arrived shortly after I did.

9:45 am – The fire alarms go off. I grab my cigarettes and lock my door and spend the next twenty minutes smoking in the courtyard.

10:30 am – My coworker calls from the copy room and asks me to bring her a file.

10:32 am – I bring my coworker the file. She photocopies it.

10:40 am – I re-file the file.

10:40:32 am – 11:15 am – I catch up on some blogs.

11:16 am – Two faculty members roll past my door in office chairs.

11:17 am – noon – I mediate office chair races for a handful of bored faculty members who have nothing better to do during their spring break than come into the office and participate in office chair races.

12:01 pm – Co-worker steps out of her office and tells me she’s heading out for the weekend and that I can go home.

12:02 pm – ten minutes ago – I sit in my office and contemplate going home, but decide that I will just have to come back for the kid and there’s nothing better to do since all of my other friends are either faculty members on spring break or servers on shift at the restaurant.

Ten minutes ago – Now – Start writing a crappy blog chronicle of my day.

Keep on ringing . . .

I have decided that I will no longer answer the take-out phone at the restaurant. I hate the to-go phone. Every server does. This is why it rings and rings and rings and no one ever seems to pick up. We all have tables on the floor, tables we hope will be paying us to provide them with good service. We are busy trying to provide said service, and stopping what we’re doing to answer the phone and then explain the menu and take the order from some voice on the other end just takes time none of us has.

Of course, management is very adamant that the phone should ring no more than three times before one us picks it up. It is, after all, a sale waiting to be made. So they rant and rave and remind us constantly that the phone needs to be answered, and since it’s part of our job and I have that stupid work-ethic thing going on, I answer it more often than not, even when I don’t have the time.

But no more. Last Sunday, as I walked into the vestibule to put an order into the micro, the phone rang and since no one else was standing still long enough for me to hand it off to them, I took the call. What’s your special today, the guy wanted to know. Well, what sides do you have? Well, what can I get that’s like the meatloaf? What kind of soup? And on and on with the questions. Figure out what the hell you want before you make the fucking call. We have a menu on line. And if you're calling us to place an order, I assume you're at the very least familiar with out menu. I spent at least ten minutes on the phone with this guy, ten minutes I could have been using to wow my guests by refilling their drinks before they even asked. And as soon as I hung up, the phone started ringing again.

Because I’m stupid, I answered it again. Another pain in the ass order – all kinds of substitutions and sauces on the side.

By the time I was done on the phone, my orders were up in the window and I had to start running them out to my guests who by this time had empty glasses and had mentally deducted five percent from my tip. By the time I finished running the first round of trays and refilling everyone’s drinks, I realized I’d forgotten to ring in an order.

Fuuuuuck!

That’s why I was coming into the vestibule to begin with.

Moments later, I realized I’d forgotten to bring out a salad too. And the woman was pissed and let the manager know when he ran out the tray for me since I was in the back cajoling the grill line (bribing them with promises of pot) into rushing out my forgotten ticket.

Fortunately, the rushed order came out moments after the order for the table beside them (who ordered at the same time), so they never knew the difference. But I knew. And I couldn’t seem to recover myself for the rest of the night. I was just off all day, one step behind where I needed to be. And by the end of the shift, it was all I could do to finish my sidework and get the hell out. I even shorted them on a few silverware roll-ups in the end because I just didn’t care.

So from now on, the to-go phone can just keep on ringing. I’m pretty sure I can’t hear at that frequency. You know, hearing loss brought on by all those years I spent working on jets.

*I started another blog - one only about serving. This is also posted there.

Why don't I pay more attention to the one-way alley?

I don’t always make the best decisions. Over the past few years, in fact, I’ve made a number of choices that turned out to be just plain bad. It’s not that they were inherently bad decisions like say, “Should I step out in front of this speeding truck? I think I will.” It’s just that when considering my options, I failed to see the possible consequences of one choice over the other. Not that I wasn’t looking for consequences – I look. I always look. And then I look some more. And then maybe I make a decision. And then maybe I even act on that decision.

It usually goes something like this: I need to cross the street. I’m at the corner. There’s a crosswalk. I look both ways. No cars. I look on the side streets to see if anyone is planning to turn. Still no cars. I check both ways once more. Nothing. I step out and halfway across the street I’m crushed by a speeding motorist. Why? Because even though I saw an alley halfway down the block, a one-way alley with a sign pointing away from the street, and even though I didn’t see any cars coming out of it, I didn’t consider that someone might pull out and speed down the street to run me over.

So a couple months ago, after I had a couple weeks off from work and realized that I had been spending way too much time at work, after I came home from Iowa and decided I had to find a way to save some money and stop working so much, a friend of mine from the restaurant who was staying with me until his townhouse was ready approached me with the idea of moving into said townhouse and splitting the rent with him. I thought about it.

I considered the benefits – I save money. I can cut down my hours. I live in a better neighborhood. I live in a bigger and nicer house. One with a real kitchen. I get to spend time with my son. When I’m not there, my son gets to spend time with another adult who he gets along with. I like hanging out with this friend and living with him will mean we get to hang out more often. We hang with the same group of people from the restaurant and since the house is just blocks from the restaurant, we can have people over to play cards and have a few beers.

I considered the negatives – I have to move. I hate moving. I have to live with someone else. I have to be considerate of another adult. I have to compromise on my tv viewing choices. He’s a bit younger and likes to have people over more often than I do. Like on week nights. When us old people like to sleep.

I even considered possible consequences – Maybe something will happen and he won’t be able to cover his share of rent one month or two or more. Maybe he’ll decide that he hates my son or me or vice versa. Maybe he’ll eat all my groceries and never buy any of his own. Maybe he’ll be a neat freak and roll his eyes every time I leave a glass on the end table. Maybe he’ll be a slob and I’ll roll my eyes every time he leaves a glass on the end table. Maybe he’ll leave the toilet seat up and I’ll fall into it in the middle of the night (my son has been properly trained).

Best case scenario, we would all make slight compromises and end up saving money and getting a little bit ahead. Worse case scenario, I would end up making more compromises than him, but still end up a little bit ahead. Worst case scenario, he would totally flake out, but I would be able to cover bills and even if I didn’t end up ahead monetarily, I wouldn’t be further behind and I would still live in a pretty nice house. So I decided to do it. The two of us sat down and worked out the splitting of rent and utilities, we talked about the challenges of living with a teenager (so he wouldn’t be surprised later), we discussed the cats, we met with his landlords, we signed the lease, he helped us move one weekend and it was done.

What I failed to consider was this – He’ll get his car towed the weekend we move. The next weekend, he’ll decide he needs to go to the store after I’ve gone to bed, he’ll see my car keys on the kitchen table, he’ll take them and he’ll drive my car into a tree.