True to Fela-form

First of all, before I start my entry, I have to point out that my little sister is now a published writer! Yea! Her article on lesbian relationships in The Sims was a front-page article on afterellen.com yesterday. W00T to Sharon!

Per the title, true to Fela-form, my bout of dysthymia was followed by a nice plunge into hypomania. Not that I mind hypomania all that much. The only bothersome thing is the insomnia. But I got six pages done on my story yesterday--and by six pages, I mean of closely set, non-dialog writing. Macalaurë just popped into my head, curled up next to my brain, and started speaking. That's a pretty gross image, but that's how it happened. Naturally, the fact that I was alone in the office for the latter part of the day helped, especially since Macalaurë frequently rambles into the realm of what I like to call "squicky topics" or things that you don't want your boss reading over your shoulder. (Although I am blatantly paranoid. I clear the screen of all my writing as soon as anyone enters my office. I also put threatening notes on any media that might contain personal writing of mine. I am not too dumb to think that, on my rare days off, my personal writing might serve as suitable entertainment to one who is nosy and does some poking. Hey, if they want the really good sh*t, all they have to do is log onto my LiveJournal, which is posted in the public domain and contains no nastygrams!)

Bobby and I had a nice supper at Della Rose's last night, then I had skating class. The exhibition is drawing near, but that is okay, as I now know and am comfortable with both the opening and closing numbers and my special number. I am concerned, however, because the other half of my duo, Rachel, has been out for a week with a sprained ankle and hasn't learned the second half of our special number yet. It's not hard, and she should be fine with it, but time is growing short. (She is supposed to be back on Sunday.)

Of course, because of my hypomania, I had insomnia last night. I did a lot of thinking on my story and D&D stuff (because I really need to do the dummy game so that when I get my laptop back with Photoshop, I can do the RPG component. Also, I can lord over those who haven't done their stuff so far the fact that I have ten times the work and am finished mine. A little guilt trip never did anyone harm.)

So that's my goal today: To work on the dummy game and see if Macalaurë is willing to settle in my head for another story session. Generally, I find, the second day's inspiration isn't as potent as the first. But given that I had only a half-day to write yesterday--and eleven warrants to run during that time--I can be content with six pages of progress.
Hypomanically (and super-productively) yours,
Medium Dawn Felagund of the Fountain

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True 'Gund Rant: Driving Peeves

I do a lot of driving. A lot. Since the age of 18, when I started college, I have been driving about sixty miles per day, just to go to school or to work. Since moving to Ellicott City, my trip to work is now a mere 28 miles round-trip, but now the trek to Belair to visit with friends is a forty mile endeavor. These last five years (I don't even want to contemplate how many miles) have given me some insights into annoying driving habits. Please don't do these things. At best, they annoy your fellow drivers. At worst, they kill them (or you). The world would be a much better place if people would act like decent, intelligent human beings on the road. Don't you know that that steel can in which you sit is as deadly as a weapon? If you support gun control and environmental regulation or oppose abortion or the death penalty (that should cover everyone), consider that it is equally life- and health-affirmative to be a safe, courteous driver. Okay, the proselytizing is finished; onto the rant!

The Opportunist: You know this person; maybe you are this person: You are sitting in an exit lane in bumper-to-bumper traffic, watching the main travel lanes zip by at a cool twenty-five miles per hour. (Twenty-five miles per hour is certainly cooler than zero miles per hour.) At last, you reach the exit, but just as you are getting ready to move off the highway, someone slides up beside you, signaling to get in front of you. Now really! Did this idiot really think everyone was waiting in line for the fun of it? Or are they just too impatient/rude (usually synonymous) to wait their turn?

You see the same thing when a lane merges into another. Some fool always has to stay in the doomed lane until the last possible second so that they can zip two cars ahead of where they would have been had they waited like everyone else.

The 'gund takes great delight in thwarting these people. Normally, I will go out of my way to let someone with their signal flashing in front of me, but not these idiots! I love the car in front of me and do my best to leave them out to dry. Of course, such rude people rarely have a problem playing chicken with reluctant Samaritans like me, and they will force their way in front of you, leaving you the choice to back off or be hit. Given that I value my time, my car, and my life, I swallow my pride and back off.

(Fellow Bal'more drivers will be most likely to spot Opportunists on I-95 north, just past the city, where 895 and 95 merge. Here, the right lane ends [anyone who drives in Baltimore knows this], and you can spot the opportunists staying in the doomed lane just so that they can butt in front of everyone else and cause back-ups as other drivers have to brake to let them in.)

This is my problem with these people: They cause traffic. They make those of us willing to do the right thing and get into our lane at the proper time wait even longer for everyone to slow down to let their opportunist ass in. Boo.

The Left-Right Challenged: I am not a speeder. At best, I go five miles or so over the limit. I am not willing to pay a hundred-dollar ticket just to get to work or my friend's house or skating class five minutes faster.

But every now and then, I like to go--as my boss calls it--"56" miles per hour. (The average highway speed in Maryland is 55 miles per hour.) I never go faster than the normal flow of traffic; even at "56" miles per hour, more people are passing me than I am passing.

But there is always that idiot, going forty miles per hour in the leftmost lane. I have trouble believing that no one in these people's ten-plus-year or so driving careers ever told them that the left lane is the fast lane. It is for people who want to go 56 miles per hour. If you want to go 55 miles per hour, get in the middle lane. If you want to go less, get to the right.

No, I am not irritated because these people force me to obey the law. I get angry because these people--through their obstinate ignorance--piss other drivers off and make them do stupid things, like darting into the middle lane and cutting off someone going 65 miles per hour. They cause traffic backups as everyone floods to the rightmost lanes to get around them. Yes, I have been stuck in traffic jams, only to get to the front of things and discover that the hold-up was caused by some sot going slow in the left-hand lane.

I respect people's right to go below the speed limit, to drive at a speed that is comfortable for them. If I am in the right-hand lane, you will never hear me complain. But the right-hand lane is the slow lane for a purpose. If you're going to go slow, get in it. You're not proving anything to speeders or aggressive drivers by dragging your feet in the fast lane; the person they cut off and harm or kill in a fit of impatience won't be you. (It'll probably be me.)

"I Can't Stand to Have You Ten Feet Ahead of Me!" People: For some reason, this happens all the time on the on-ramp to Route 100 toward Ellicott City from the northbound B&W Parkway. It never fails that if I try to get onto Route 100 from the parkway and there is another car in the right lane of 100 but behind me, that car will hit the gas and not let me onto the highway. The problem is that this on-ramp is rather short, so I don't have a lot of time to play around. I have had up to three cars in a row do this to me, forcing me to ride on the shoulder with the rumble strips rattling my teeth until some decent person lets me in.

I don't understand this philosophy. I always use my signal, so there is no doubt that my intentions to merge are clear. I am not one of those people who goes uber-slow while trying to merge into traffic: I try to get up to speed as quickly as possible as not to inconvenience drivers in the main travel lanes. Do these Starbucks-sucking Columbianites really think that they're going to get to their destination direly late if they let me merge in front of them? Furthermore, why ride in the righthand lane if you are offended by people merging onto the highway? 99% of the time in Maryland, the on-ramp is on the righthand side. Get into the left lane if you want uninterrupted travel.

I like to switch into the left lane and pass these assholes or--better yet--get in front of them. They probably don't even notice, but it gives me a nice warm feeling, like I've proved just a little something to myself.

"You Mean the Turn Signal Doesn't Turn Itself Off?!" People: I know you've been behind them before. They're not particularly dangerous, but they're an irritant nonetheless. Kind of like diluted bleach. They ride for miles (literally) with their turn signal on; I have to wonder if they like the sound of it clicking in their car. The other day, a van in my proximity drove a good five miles with its signal on; when I finally got to pass the driver at my exit, I saw that he was reading while driving. Score! Generally, if you drive that long with your signal on, you are not paying attention, and--simply put--you need to.

Old People: I have no problem with older people who drive, let me say that to start out. I have a problem with older people who drive, although they don't belong on the road. Those who can't hold their hands steady enough to stay in their lane. Those who can't see and drive ten miles per hour everywhere, whether on a country lane or I-70. Those who just can't see. I'll never forget that my late grandfather was too blind to read the newspaper, even with glasses, but his doctor signed off for him to get a driver's license.

My main beef with older drivers comes back to the heat that teenaged drivers take. Teenaged drivers are the single cause of all evil on the roads, if you listen to politicians. And yes, there are plenty of young show-offs on the road who want to impress their friends in the backseat and so drive fast and aggressively. But there are also those types with BMWs, receding hairlines, cell phones in ears, and limp dicks, but we don't see laws coming out with harsh penalties for insurance salesmen with mid-life crises. Yet, try to suggest a law tightening the restrictions on older drivers, and you're discriminating, you're ageist. Why is it not likewise ageist to make such claims about young drivers? If you look at accident stats, the young drivers are always the worst. The old drivers are usually next. The difference? The young drivers are also new drivers. What's the old people's excuse? Healthy, able-bodied and -minded old people should be the most experienced and safest drivers on the road.

It is against the law in Maryland for a seventeen-year-old to drive between the hours of midnight and five AM. What this accomplishes, I don't know, except to make kids caught out after-hours nervous and apt to act stupidly as a result. But my grandmother was allowed to drive, despite the fact that she was blacking out behind the wheel. When she ran off the road and down an embankment and into a lady's backyard, she was lucky that all she hit was a woodpile and not a tree or a house or a child playing on a swingset. She was lucky that she wasn't hurt or killed herself. (The lady put in a claim with the insurance company to have her woodpile re-stacked. I laughed at the inanity of this. Who knows, though, living so close to a "retirement community," how many tumbles that woodpile has taken?)

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True 'Gund Rant: Foodservice Peeves

There are few college kids fortunate enough to earn their degree without doing their time in either foodservice or retail. I did mine: For six years, I worked at Friendly's, which is a family restaurant chain on the East Coast that specializes in ice cream and cultivating for itself a shitty reputation. My store was good, though, during my tenure there. (I left when the downward spiral began; in other words, when Judy, the GM for many, many years, retired and was replaced with some young asshole who farted with more intelligence than he spoke.) I worked every position in the store at one time or another--including management--and so got an eyeful of what the general public has to offer indentured servants--I mean, foodservice workers--like me.

Let me say that, if you're into this kind of thing, there are websites that do it much better than me. The Stained Apron hasn't been updated in a while, but the stories are still posted for the world to peruse. Without a doubt, though, the source for foodservice horror stories from both sides of the counter is Bitter Waitress. Check these places out: Fellow food-slingers will laugh for hours and ignorant guests will think twice before acting like an asshole to the person who spends a considerable amount of alone-time with their meal.

Allow me to say, first, however, that I do not approve of putting foreign matter or body fluids into someone's consumables, no matter how much of an asshole they are. Yes, I have thought of it, but those bitter fantasies go in the same place as the ones where I throttle certain conservative bigots who can't understand that closed minds should come with closed mouths. I was the kitchen manager at my store for many years and responsible for training much of the staff in food safety issues: It is disgusting and unprofessional to knowingly contribute to such a health hazard. I always sated the temptation with the knowledge that--despite the fact that I wore the apron and was obligated to call them "sir" and "ma'am"--I remained ethically superior and the better person, no matter what they said or did to me.

Okay, proselytizing complete; launch "Rant" sequence.

Assumptions: The moment you put on an apron and step behind the lines of a foodservice establishment, no matter what you intelligence or your education, people think less of you.

This is one of the main reasons I gave up serving and returned to strictly production work and training. Despite the fact that my hourly rate was higher due to tips as a server, I couldn't stand the thought of someone's bias against me determining how much money I would make. I'd rather negotiate a pay rate based on my strengths as an employee and make that all the time, no matter what some dipshit insurance salesman, his unsatisfied stay-at-home wife, and 2.5 kids thought of me.

My husband and I waited tables on the same shifts, at the same time at Friendly's, yet he would always make much more than me. Did this mean that he was better? No, I was the harder worker, certainly. Furthermore, this wasn't isolated: Every waiter in the store, no matter how dumb and lazy, made better money that the waitresses. We once had a waiter who told tables that we were out of soup, salad, and ice cream because he was too lazy to make it: $5 to $10 on every table. Me, I'd bust my ass making special kids' sundaes and entree salads with fat free dressing for the same people and pick up two bucks for my efforts.

Being a young, blonde, attractive female, when I acted polite or sweet to a table, they assumed that I was a dumb, ditzy blonde. When my husband did the same thing, he was "charming." Plus, why would a woman with an engagement ring on her finger need to put herself through college? Obviously, Bobby had a greater need--as the male breadwinner--for a decent tip than I did.

We worked in a mall, and the worst were the older saleswomen from Hecht's. They would stare down their noses at you and order you around like some kind of slave. A work-friend of mine, Jamie, once had to wait on a table of them, and they had her near tears for their condescension and rudeness. As the unofficial store psychologist, I took her aside and told her to think it through: "You are only working here because you are putting yourself through college," I told her, "which is an admirable feat and more than any of them have done. They make six-fifty an hour to sell makeup. In five years, you will be in a ten-times better job than theirs, making an actual difference and making five times what they make. They look down on you because they know that they are too stupid to ever move beyond where they are now, and they are jealous of you. You are better than them, Jamie."

A note to guests: Never look down on your servers. Many of them are putting themselves through school to enter careers to which you might never aspire. College is expensive and not all of us have trust funds. Furthermore, given the economy, a person often makes more as a server than s/he would with a master's degree in his/her field of study. I graduated with a 3.95 GPA from one of the most challenging schools in Maryland and worked as a kitchen manager for another six months before getting the job I have now, where a degree is actually required. Let me tell you, every job I did in that restaurant--from washing dishes to waiting tables to management--was harder than the job I do now.

"Diet Coke" Is Not a State of Mind: I walk up to a table, my usual chipper and accommodating self, introduce myself, and ask how my guest is doing today. "Diet Coke," she replies. What the hell? When did Diet Coke become a state of mind?

Along with my first point, service staff at times become invisible. They are no more human than a computer that you punch you JC Penney's catalog order into. The very fact that people find that it is acceptable to respond to a polite inquiry as to their well-being with "Diet Coke" highlights this. Were they meeting with a client, who inquired, "How are you today?" do you think they would reply, "Tell me what shit you want to buy and have done with it?"

Advice to guests: Respond to server's inquiry. If I knew my guest was having a rough day, I'd do my best to pamper them. If they had a cold, I'd keep their coffee hot and bring their soup fast, for example. If I knew they were in a good mood, serving them was a pleasure and so I'd be more apt to be attentive and accommodating. Crabby people were always the ones I saved for last.

Furthermore, consider taking an additional ten seconds from your busy day to ask after them. It is refreshing to have someone care for your well-being for a change. It puts us all back on the level of human.

"I'm in a Hurry:" Because we were in a mall, we'd get people (usually women) who were shopping or on their way to a hair/nail appointment and decided to stop in for a snack. Often, these people felt the need to inform me that they were "in a hurry."

So what the hell does that mean? Who isn't in a hurry these days? I was never sure what they expected me to do. I served all of my guests as quickly as possible, paying careful attention to being equitable, however. It was to my advantage to do so: Someone who wanted to get in and out in a timely manner would leave a bigger tip and a faster table-turnover time meant more opportunities to make money. Did they think that I was going to delay them unnecessarily, just for the sheer pleasure of it? "I think it is to my benefit to wait ten minutes before delivering their iced tea." Not likely.

What is more likely is that they expected some kind of special treatment. As though, because they were "in a hurry," I was going to rush back to the kitchen and ask that their food be made first, before the other hundred people in the restaurant, many of whom were also "in a hurry" but didn't feel the need to be inconsiderate and state it outright.

We used to get a lot of mall employees on their breaks, who would come in during the lunch rush, sit down, and inform their server, "I'm in a hurry. I only have ten minutes left on my break." I used to relish telling these idiots that I suggested that they explore the many wonderful options offered at the mall's food court. When I was the kitchen manager, I liked more telling dumbass servers who honestly expected me to make that person's food before everyone else's--just because she was "in a hurry"--that the ticket would go in line with the rest and come out in the order in which it was sent. So I'm supposed to pay extra attention to this person--making others who are patient and considerate wait longer while I do so--just because s/he is "in a hurry?"

There are a few vestiges from my Friendly's days, words that have the power to make me cringe, that make my blood pressure rise and my teeth grind. "I'm in a hurry" is one of them.

A note to guests: There are always moments when we want to get out of a restaurant as quickly as possible, and getting on your server's good side can help you to do this. Instead of stating outright, "I'm in a hurry," and expecting that the world is going to stop just so that you can get out of the restaurant on time, try asking your server, when s/he arrives to your table: "I have an appointment in forty minutes. Will I be able to have lunch and still make it on time?" This gives the server the chance to appraise how busy the restaurant is and to consider the kitchen's ticket times, neither of which s/he can control. S/he might also suggest meals that are quicker to prepare or steer you away from big burgers or steaks that take a while to cook. At the worst, s/he will tell you that the restaurant is running slowly and s/he can't promise anything, sending you to the drive-through or the food court, but able to make your appointment on time. You'd be surprised how much help your server can be if you're polite and do live with the expectation that s/he exists for the sole purpose of stopping the Earth's rotation when it is convenient for you.

"Give me...:" Recently, McDonald's launched a radio spot for their entree salads that featured some dumb-voiced woman saying, "Arugala. It's as much fun to say as it is to eat, in bite-sized pieces...." Besides my usual aversion to stupid-as-hell McDonald's commercials (why they have decided to "go ghetto" is beyond me, but I prefer to revamp their motto as "I'm Shovin' It," personally), this one set me off so badly that I would have to turn it off when it came on.

It featured the aforementioned dumb-voiced woman saying, "The best way I like to make it is like this: (Sound of car pulling up to drive-through window; chipper McDonald's worker says, 'Welcome to McDonald's. May I take your order?') Give me...."

I'm not even sure what came after that, it used to bug me so badly that I would have loud conniptions in my car. How rude is it to say, "Give me" to your server when you're ordering? First of all, no one is "giving" you anything. You are buying food from a company and paying your server--through a minimum 15% tip--for his/her conscientious service. Secondly, didn't your mommy ever tell you to say "please?" Is "May I please have the turkey melt?" so hard to say? Are you in such a hurry that you can't choke out, "I would like the tuna on wheat, please?"

A note to guests: "Please" and "thank you" go a long way. Again, you are treating your server as a human being on equal ground, not a slave expected to serve your whims no matter what your manner of speaking. If your server slapped down your plate and said, "Eat your cheeseburger and get out," instead of saying, "Here's your cheeseburger sir/ma'am. May I bring you anything else right now?" how would you feel?

"Are You Open?": Because we worked in a mall, we had a gate that we could lower whenever the restaurant was closed in lieu of actually having a door to lock. It had a wide grate that anyone could see through. In the mornings, the opening manager would raise the gate just high enough for the first staff to scoot under, usually about three feet. The mall, like many malls, sponsored a mall walker's program, and so there were always old people hoofing around the mall while we were setting up for the day, even though all the stores were closed.

Without fail, on a regular basis, some idiot would stop one of the openers and ask, "Are you open?" despite the fact that there was a gate lowered in their face.

My two favorite reactions came from my mom, who worked as a server trainer for many years for Friendly's. She used to tell people that, yes, we were open, but there was a height requirement, and if you couldn't make it under the gate without ducking, you couldn't come in. The best, however, involved the ultimate in stupid people: Those who would not only inquire but duck under the gate and wait as though in line or even seat themselves at a table. It was strictly against company policy to have non-employees in the restaurant while the store was closed--liability issues--so we couldn't even allow them to wait in a booth until we were ready to open. (Not like we wanted to. The times when the store was closed were welcome moments for all of us, to get our work done and associate without people breathing down our necks.) Anyway, in this instance, an old lady and her even older mother ducked under the gate and proceeded to seat themselves. My mom informed them that the store was closed and they were not allowed inside during this time. The old woman then said, "Well, my mother can't crawl under that gate," and my mom told her, "She sure managed to crawl under it to get in here, didn't she?" and proceeded to watch the two old ladies crawl on hands-and-knees while she held the keys that could have raised the gates.

Another instance involved my dad, who was a part-time night manager. (We literally called it the family business: Nearly everyone who worked there had a relative who worked there in the past or the present.) On this night, the power went out at the mall, and the mall closed early. Lo, the power came back on shortly after, but we'd already gotten permission to close and sure as hell weren't giving up a free night off. However, some stores reopened, so the mall unlocked the doors and people straggled back in. ("Going to the mall" in Harford County is like "going to church" in a midwest Baptist community.) Now, my dad had the gate completely closed and was standing up front, closing the registers while we finished cleaning up for the night, when some dumbass guy walked by and asked, "Are you guys open?" Sure, if you can squeeze through the cracks in the gate.

A note to guests: Restaurants generally want to attract customers by making it easy to enter their establishments and spend your money. If you feel like you need military training to navigate the barriers at the entrance or if you need a locksmith's kit to get in, chances are that they are not open. A better bet would be to look for posted hours or ask a staff member when they open or close.

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