Entries from October 2005 ↓

I went to a costume party last night that was also sort of a birthday party for me. I’m now 28, and I dressed up as Rainbow Brite. It was a lot of fun. But I’m writing this because I want to publicly thank that chick who did The Worm for everyone at the party last night.

Girl, that was the best Worm I have ever seen in my life. I’m sorry I didn’t get up from the table now to get a closer look, because your Worm had great height and distance, and I only caught a bit of it, but man. Your Worm kicks all the other Worms’ asses.

Your body was, like, meant to do The Worm. I wonder how you discovered that you could do such a kickass Worm. Did you just try it one day and have awesome, natural Worm ability? Or did you perfect and hone your Worm until it evolved into the showstopper it is today?

I have so much to learn from you, The Worm Girl. I hope we cross paths again soon.

The boyfriend gave me an iPod shuffle for my birthday. I was always skeptical of the fan boys, the Apple fanatics, but my mp3 player only as big as a stick of gum makes me want to have Steve Jobs’ babies. Or at least babysit them a time or two or something.

Rather than bore you to bolting by posting story after story about my dog I have created a place for all those tales. I am pleased as punch to announce the arrival of the Tootie blog.

Bow-wow, suckas.

I desperately need to get out of my head and out of the insular world of weblogs. I need to hold the hand of someone who is lonely, help ease the pain of someone suffering. I need to see the raw flesh and scars of burn victims. I need to witness the mourning of someone who has lost someone they thought they couldn’t live without.

I need more than anything to teach someone to read. Or build a useful tool with my bare hands for someone without any. I need to sit for long spells and not think and not consume. I want to make someone laugh, someone who was hellbent on not cracking a smile. I want to make a little girl feel fantastically confident about something not involving how she looks.

I need to hear the cries of the hungry. I need to feed. I want to affect change.

But I’m afraid I’ll fuck it up.

Best tip I ever got: $50 dollars on a $50 tab. A biker dude and his wife. They just ordered steaks and beers and were no trouble at all. Sat at a tiny bar table and barely said a word.

Rudest thing anyone ever said: This was not to me, but directed at me. I was 18, it was my first serving job. I was super busy, when a party of six men arrived. One of them ordered hot water to drink. I found it an odd request, but filled up a glass tumbler full of hot water for him anyway. When I sat it before him he slid the hot glass of water to the edge of the table and said, "I wanted it in a mug." The edge of the table had a lip, and so the hot water, fresh from the coffee machine, covered my hand and arm. I was wearing a white dress shirt that clung to my forearms, burning me. I sat the drink tray down on their table and left to the kitchen to get help and scream and cry. When my manager went out to see what was going on the guy called me a bitch! After that my boss kicked him out. That was about the only time that asshole ever stood up for me.

Biggest scam artist: This guy. For cheesy.

Drunkest person I ever served: My manager had to cut her shitty ass off. She must have been on something else, like Valium or Xanax, because this woman was tore the fuck down. She was slurring her speech and trying to fist fight my manager. Her arms looked much like spaghetti. She eventually blacked out and was carried home.

Most violent thing I witnessed: This would be a tie. The first instance was the night of Valentine’s Day at Outback Steakhouse in Murfreesboro. All the tables around the bar were open seating, meaning if you get there first you get the booth. So, the wait time overall was about 2 1/2 hours (I know, wtf?) so people were really stalking all the tables. I’m not sure exactly what transpired before the 30-something dude in a ball cap punched that 60-something year old man in the face, but it obviously made ball cap dude kinda mad. The wife of the guy who was lying in the floor, straight cold cocked, starts screaming at the top of her lungs. She was shreiking, "You killed my husband!" So, the guy who punched the old man ran out the front door and over to the parking lot of the Wal-Mart next door, but one of our kitchen guys chased him down and tackled him. The police were called, and he was arrested.

The second most violent thing I didn’t actually witness, but I definitely experienced it. I was working at the Cooker on West End (RIP), 18 and stupid. I was standing in the kitchen flirting with the salad guy when I heard what sounded like a tray. A tray that had hit the floor hard. I made my way into the dining room to see customers crouched under tables and people running out the door. A party of 16 people were debating the Bible when a man pulled out a gun and fired it at the ceiling. That was nuts. The cops had to come and file a report. It fucked up our whole night and no one even paid for that big party’s meal, because they all ran out of the restaurant.

Most scandalous thing I witnessed: A manager getting head from a waitress. We were on our summer trip to the lake, where the boss rented house boats and we’d all go to the lake and drink all day. Apparently those two were drunk enough to think they couldn’t be seen but from inside the boat, high above, we could see everything. And he still fucking denies it.

Most embarrassing thing that ever happened to me: Falling down that one time. (There were 20 or so other times, but that was the best.)

The time I felt most helpless: When I spilled an entire tray of wine on that guy.

Number of times I cried at work when I waited tables: My best guess is approximately 75-80.

The time I often think about and still laugh. Hard.: Brenda. One of the most genuinely kind and funny people I know.

Number of server dreams I’ve had since leaving the restaurant industry: Too fucking many.

Our new dog finally has a full name: Tootie Freshen Amarillo.

Isn’t that the sexiest dog name you’ve ever heard?

There is this movie coming out called Waiting. It is a comedy about working in a restaurant. You’ve probably seen the commercial or the trailer. Now, this movie may or may not be funny, I am not one to pre-judge (Unless you are wearing one of those No Fear shirts. No mere mortal can be expected not to prejudge a No Fear wearer.), but the previews for this film feature an awful lot of kitchen staff and servers doing disgusting things to people’s food.

I don’t think gritty realism is what this movie is aiming for, but that gross out stuff is just for laughs. Restaurants, and the people who work in them, can sometimes be seedy (in a good way!), but eatery employees are not that low. Nearly every one I’ve ever worked with has agreed that fucking with customer’s food is a no-no.

Oh, they’ll threaten it. And why not, because YOU’LL NEVER KNOW. And a lot of you are pricks. But no one is going to spit in your drink or shake dandruff on your salad or wipe their ass with your french toast. Many people may not believe in karma, but most of them fear it. Find any restaurant worker you know, and ask them if they’ve ever done something disgusting to a customer’s food. Chances are they’ll say no way. No one I have ever worked with has ever fucked with a guest’s food.

Except this one guy. We’ll call him Jet Leroy. That was his nickname.

I went to day care on Main Street. It was actually a house, a big, old white one with peeling paint and a big front porch. There was a large front room where much of the playing was done. The floors were hardwood, but dark and gritty smooth with the dirt and slobber of children. They were always a little bit dusty.

I remember very little about the inside of that place, because I spent all my time outside. The home that was renovated into my day care had a large backyard. Almost no grass though, due to constant little feet. There was a swing tied to a high oak tree with thick rope. And there was a basketball goal.

I guess I was eight or so when I started going to the day care. The first day I arrived–my sister and I–I remember discovering the place from behind my mothers’ legs, flashes at a time. I was shy and nervous, and we’d just moved to that town. A girl from my grade immediately asked if I wanted to play a game of Horse. If I ever see that girl again I’m going to thank her for that, because it made me feel at ease and accepted, and it gave me something to take the anxiety away. That girl and I stayed friends through high school.

They served the nastiest snacks at this day care. Peanut butter and celery? Gross, I didn’t want to eat that. I mean, I don’t want to eat that now. There isn’t enough milk in the world, and that was the other thing. Each parent had to take turns bringing in milk for all the kids to drink. Don’t ask me why that wasn’t included in the price of day care, biut whatever. It happened. My mother, not known for exorbitant spending or for being particularly rich at the time, brought in jugs of milk. Other parents did not. They sent their child to day care with powdered milk.

Typing the words "powdered milk" just now made me gag a tiny bit. And again just then. Powdered milk (blar) was always, at best, luke warm and gray in color, and I am going to puke if I go any further. That shit shouldn’t be given to anything that breathes. It is beyond cruel.

I wrote plays at that day care. Yes, I did. Well, I basically retold fairy tales, but if James Lapine can do it my eight-year-old self could do it. I wrote a dark and somewhat morbid revision of Cinderella and cast all my day care friends in it. There was a large cast, and I basically had to force some of the children too young to put up a fight to play along. The production was a chaotic affair that disintegrated after about two minutes. I never wrote another play.

I went to a different day care later. One in a little yellow house up on the hill, just a few blocks from the one on Main Street. One of the day care workers played serious favorites with the girls–taking some out for breakfast, bringing them along to listen to the tape player while she ran errands. And sometimes I was included, and sometimes I wasn’t. And that fucked me right up. I am totally against day care workers playing favorites like that with nine-year-old girls. Ya know, for the record.

This older girl Christie (who had a trampoline, though I never used it–she just talked about it all the time) and I put on a beauty pageant there once. With us as the only two contestants, obviously. No need to waste time. Christie whipped my ass at that pageant. She had a shiny, sparkly leotard with feathers on it and I just had my old, janky Ashland City Cowboys cheerleader uniform that was a size too small. Christie always got to go along in the car to run errands.

I can’t believe some kids have never spent a single day in day care. I’m happy I went. I think it contributes to a bit of that bend I pride myself on. In other words, day care made me a little bit weird, but I’m glad about it.

Tootie and her Hedgehog