Saturday, September 11, 2010

There isn't a justifiable title for this

Today feels kinda strange. It's of course September 11th and I'm remembering what it means to be an American. I've gone through about 40 emails this morning that all tell me to make sure I have a flag out today. Problem is, I don't own a flag. How truly unamerican is that.

You know it funny, when I was a kid and all the adults were gathered around talking, they used to say things like, I remember exactly where I was when Kennedy was shot. This day is like that now. I remember where I was the day the towers fell, the day when our happy little bubble of ingnorance was busted. I was sitting in a waiting room of yet another rehab center, waiting to be assessed by some undergrad who didn't have a clue as to what a junkie is. I hadn't shot up yet and the withdrawal was starting to show it's ugly face. My nose was running, my body was on fire, I was shivering and sweating, I was moments away from explosive diarrhea and then it happened. Katie Couric and Matt Laur were stunned into silence as the second plane barreled it's way into the tower.

For just a moment I forgot about me. I let go of the selfish junkie monster and let myself feel human again. We didn't know for sure what was going on but it was something. This was no accident. I was literally stunned into a stupor and just sat there watching the tv.

But life continues and today nine years later, I'm sitting in my apartment, miles away from the rehab center, that by the way I ran from, but the feelings and the emotions of that dreadful day are still with me. My heart goes out to the people who lost their loved ones. My heart goes out also to that preacher who thinks that burning Korans is going to somehow make up for the damage that the terrorists created. It isn't the muslum religion that shattered our America, it was asshole terrorists. Burning a holy book isn't going to change that, nor is it going to make any difference whatsoever. All that's gonna do is start a fight that I don't think we're prepared for. Can't we just stop killing and judging?

Monday, September 6, 2010

The Stair Master....

As you folks know, I've been a waitress for nearly 20 years. I would consider myself to be a strong server, meaning I can handle a number of tables and give excellent service. I take pride in doing a job well done, and it's rewarding to know you're good at something. This skill runs in my family; almost all of the women have done this type of work, so it's "in my blood" so to speak.

I have lost the confidence I once had in being a good waitress. I've lost my ability.

A few months ago, I finished school and was hired my an insurance company to process claims. I had quit my job at the restaurant I had worked at, thinking my waitressing days were over. I hung up my apron and threw away those god-awful, stinky black tennis shoes. But to my surprize, I realized I missed waiting on assholes. Believe it or not! What I missed most of all was the cash. It just so happended that the restaurant my mom works at needed a server for Saturday nights, so they hired me. They didn't really even interview me. I was hired based on my mother's performance. She is one of the best servers I've ever worked with. I'm not just saying that because she's my mom, I've seen her do some amazing things with just a tray and an order pad!

To get to the point of this blog....
This restaurant I'm working at now, is by far the hardest job I've ever had. Alot of things contribute to this but the number one thing is the steps. I call them the stairs of death. The kitchen is on the second floor. So when you work in the dining room it's not too bad because it is on the second floor as well. The bar though is downstairs and everything you need, you must hike yourself up about 20 rickety, crooked, slippery steps of terror to get it.

I swear to god, those steps are going to be the death of me! They put me in the weeds and I can't ever seem to get out! I run my ass off when I'm there. Carrying trays of food up and down those steps for hours is no small feat. By Sunday I am exhausted and worn out. It feels like my body has been swapped with an 80 year old arthritic woman!

I just can't get the hang of it. Every restaurant is the same, but each one is different too. It usually takes me about a week or so to find my "groove" so to speak. Well I've been there for over 2 months, and I am grooveless. I make stupid mistakes, I forget orders, I spill things, I drop things. I don't know what it is but I just can't get my ass in gear. I am one of those waitresses you hate to have wait on you.

Will any of this change? Probably not. Maybe I can chalk it up to mental deficiency. I don't want to be there and subconsciously it's showing itself in my abilities. Just a few more months and I think my apron will go back in the closet. For good this time.