how much??

some hob-nob, and my mother in her hey-day, liked to proclaim that if you have to ask, you can't afford it. i remember shopping with my mom in boutiques where nothing had a price tag, and we'd come home with bags of glad-rags and matching shoes.

these days, i'm in reduced circumstances and by no means flying solo in that air.

the president won't say recession, but everybody else is clamoring about it, and just this week, the fed announced its biggest overhaul of the financial industry since the great depression. the oblique impossible math of bear-sterns stockholders thinking their bits were hovering around $60, but the buy-out coming in at $2? how's that again? oh, ok, wait, $10? WHAT?

i think most folks are in numb acceptance about the price of gas cuz it's been at or around $3 since katrina. (it seems.)

but there are more insidious hikes and they are everywhere. confident about their low prices, i stopped at trader joe's the other night for some groceries. the eggs were $2 more than last month. double in price. the smoked trout i sometimes treat myself with at $4 a package was also doubled. last time i bought butter, it was $1.99. this time, $4.99. the trout i skipped. the eggs and butter are for the owner, so i can't not have them.

to save time monday, i ran to the corner bodega for cat litter. it's $2.49 at the shaw's and was $4.49 last time i bought it from pedro. 2 bucks to save the 40 minutes to and fro seemed worth it. it was priced at $7.49 today. wtf? off to the square. the price of clay sure isn't in the news.

at work, we order 50-lb. bags of flour. one week they were $18, next week $60. 300% increase. we buy 5-gallon containers of frying oil. they went from $16 to $40. those cooking oil riots in malaysia and morocco don't seem so far-fetched, do they?

the ceo of countrywide is walking out with an extra $10 million in his pocket. um? job well done? no doubt when the nickels shake out the bear-sterns poo-bah will get a nice chunky payday too.

any wonder why that poll yesterday showed 80% of americans think we're heading in the wrong direction? maybe the question should be, is there any direction?

let's get physical

"lemme hear your body talk..."

way back in 6th grade, i ate a bunch of strawberries. not just a cup or a bowl, but an entire quart. they were perfect and sweetly red and tangy and juicy. within hours, i had a blotchy rash all over my stomach, chest and neck. it threatened to creep to my face, so i was allowed to skip the next day of school.

it was YEARS til my mother told me that famous rash day was the 4th time in a row my dad blew me off. it was that same number of years til i ate another strawberry, presuming an allergy, not emotional manifestation.

tonight i received the opposite of what i wanted.

he withdrew. he stayed away.

even though i spent the week trying to gird myself, i got hot and dizzy and sick. my ears were filled with a buzzing while he talked. my eyes welled and my heart raced. luckily i was at work and very busy.

now, i'm long home, and it's late, and i'm letting myself cry.

"pretty music", his mean grandmother might have said.

i just have no place else to put "it".

i get smaller and smaller, huh?

cheesecake to feed the world

previously i've written about the little brown people with whom i share the late-night train ride back to my neighborhood. mostly men, all redolent with the smell of cooking and cleaning.

lately, i've been amazed by the number of them all carrying cheesecake factory doggie bags. i think there are 3 of these sloporiums within a rational subway commute, and i know they are huge operations requiring giant staffs. last night, in a car with about 50 passengers, about 10 guys had these bags. night before, a similar ratio. i figure about 90% of the riders were coming home from restaurant jobs.

much is made about how many hours and different jobs these guys work, often without legal documents. millions of dollars flow from the states to families left behind in central and south america. (the benefit of the exchange rate, however, is beginning to dwindle as the dollar sucks more and more air.)

i'd love a numbers-cruncher to figure how much cheesecake and salads the size of my head are helping keep brazil afloat.

emotional roulette

"your feelings don't matter." -- repudiation.

"don't be sad."-- invalidation.

"if you don't get through this, it will not go well for you." -- direct threat.

"we'll talk in a few days." -- withholding.

i feel like i'm log-rolling in white water rapids.

i admitted being confused. i asked for some more time to process. miles between us, i could smell the smoke coming from his head. yet if i can't (won't???) articulate it, how can we discuss it effectively?

damned if i do, damned if i don't here.

how do i feel about what i did? i feel violated, sad, dehumanized, sickened, anguished, troubled. i feel like i did something awful to someone else and something horrible to myself. which is primary? i don't know yet. if i refer to statement #1 above, wouldn't it be better/advantageous/expeditious if i just got over it? if my feelings are never to matter, than shouldn't inurement become my friend? how can i live life as an open wound?

and now i feel afraid.

more than once in the last weeks, i have confessed to feeling disenfranchised. i don't feel connected and my being owned feels tenuous at best. there are moments, yes, and i devour and savor them. as for the rest? he basically said, "tough shit."

the owner is on about kindness lately. funny that, huh?

ball of confusion

currently i am one, and now i've got fear tangled into the skein's prickly strands.last week, in anticipation of something that would challenge me, i asked the owner for help. "please tell me what to do." he was putting me in the situation and i asked him directly and simply. he was traveling, he was pre-occupied, a few days went by; then a lightbulb broke over my head. i knew he'd just say suck it up. so i did and concentrated on what was most relevant to me, what would allow me to behave in the way we both desired. mostly, i succeeded, but i just plain refused to consider what i knew would be an inevitable facet.

jump-cut>>

unexpectedly, i ran into the owner upon his return. he was waiting for a date. i knew about her, and had even scoured my apartment to make it gleaming for any potential hijinks. she was woefully late, and i frankly couldn't believe he wasn't more irritated. i was thrilled to see him, yet felt misty that i was not *to see* him. he was there for her. i was told, " don't be sad," even though i was. i wasn't angry or acting out or behaving irrationally, ya know? i had missed him and there he was right there, looking gorgeous -- but waiting for another. so, yeah, shoot me for wanting you. did he mean in some bizarre way to cheer me? i don't know. it felt like invalidation.

(a post-script here in fairness: after over an hour of waiting he wound up putting her feet to the heat. she balked and didn't show. i got pizza and mmc. lol. she messed up. he's wonderful to be with, at table and in bed.)

next day, up there>>

plenty of chores for me and we had big plans, which involved an actual start-time, and to my nerves and his happiness, this other woman with whom i simply don't know what to do. i had asked. i had admitted i was flummoxed. he didn't care. oooooh-k. my problem, but my hackles were up as soon as i heard her voice, so i just stayed quiet.

she went to the bathroom almost immediately. (hey, long train-ride, lol.) he came to me. he kissed and fondled me. i felt my rigidity, but could see the fire and joy in his eyes. i realized my arms were folded and i was unconsciously holding him at bay. i stopped. i let go. i wanted him too. like a fever running though me.

over dinner, he coaxed her to tell a story from her blog: "spanish danny." eyes cast down and her voice full of hesitancy, it brought a whole new meaning to my mother's oft-said, "it's not what you say, but how you say it." the owner seemed genuinely charmed, so i knew it wasn't the time to share my multiple johnny anecdote. once i loved a man who was tall, dark and handsome, played rugby professionally and broke my heart twice. his mates called him irish johnny. he was of irish extraction, but by way of australia. his friend, who wooed me after the 2nd shattering, was johnny black. he wasn't, but he drank it. another in their circle was johnny o'. irish johnny was also an "o", but arrived too late to catch that sobriquet. there was also big johnny. johnny without an adjective was 1st, i guess.

the concert was brilliant fun. i felt madly in love and so happy he brought me.

i pretended she wasn't there.

there was copious alcohol.

i had to do something that i never ever want to do. never. not in fantasy, not in my dreams, not in bed. never. in this case, i had to do it to someone i don't like, don't find appealing and who did not want it. how do i process that?

yes, i did what i was told. ok, that part is good. the rest? i just don't know. maybe i just won't allow the feelings up since i spent all those days sublimating? i really don't know.


eventually, she reached critical mass and fled to her cocoon. she hid, silent, until i left in the morning. he and i slept, fucked, slept and fucked some more and laughed alot. yet all the while, i was so conscious of *pretending* we were alone. it was bizarre, but i was too wrecked and work loomed.

i didn't hear from him the next day. he was just back and i had lots to do and social plans. after a venue change and a few drinks, i ran into an ex. it had always been casual. he liked to handcuff me to the bed, but he was never a keeper. he told me i looked great, and for once, i actually thought i looked ok. good hair day; sweater set, seamed stockings -- retro and flattering.

timing is everything.

i came home and cried.

next night, the owner called. i knew he'd had a bad spot with the future ex. we chatted and laughed and it was great to hear his voice. it's always so nice to know he's thinking of me, ya know?

after awhile, i admitted i was struggling with saturday. i asked if we could wait to talk about it. it was late, and i was still confused.

he

got

so

angry.


much has been made lately that "my feelings don't matter". i am trying very hard to keep my hand off the fire of what is looking to be an adventure in dehumanization. objectification is hot for me. this is terrifying.

i also struggle with not wanting to be a bother.

he was furious.

he accused me of being presumptuous.

he hung up.

i was/am terrified.

i sat by the window and waited. i feared an express lane drive to midnight midieval punishment.

i'm at a loss. utterly.

if my *feelings don't matter*, i don't know how i can stay in a place of emotional vulnerability. am i supposed to? or shall i just drag myself to a place of defeat and loss of hope? what is life without the potential for joy?

even this, i just don't know.

paraphrased

"if the phone don't ring, i know it's you."

power plays

he was very old and walked slowly with a cane. his son lagged behind, like a beaten dog.

"would you prefer a table or a booth?" "i'll decide that, thank you very much." i'm thinking, "ok, yeah, i just offered you that exact option. so tout de suite, grumpypants." he heads towards a booth. great, fine, i start clearing the extra settings.

he gets up. "no, this one is no good," and starts heading elsewhere. the son and i just follow. he pauses, turns, surveys the dining room and switches direction. he picks a new, third booth and sits. i crack wise and he kinda laughs. the son is mortified, but we both know this ritual has a tacit agreement. i walk away with the extra settings. when i'm returning, he is UP AGAIN! fucking goldilocks trapped inside an 80-year-old man.

"sir, you can have any empty table in this restaurant. however, i'd appreciate it if you would choose one now for your meal."

he grabs my forearm. i feel the rage start to well. why do they always think they can touch me?

"let me tell you something about you hostesses."

"i am not a hostess."

"whatever. you're a girl, and you're seating me. you're a fucking hostess."

"sir, the profanity is not appreciated, please sit down." (they need to check his meds...)

"let me tell you something. back when i was ceo of xxx..." and he launched into "back in the day" how he'd always get the best of them, blah blah, blah. i knew he just wanted to hear himself talk. it's a very wealthy community, so he quite likely had been a powerful man in his prime and now was lonely, lost and listless in retirement, with a fading mind and degrading body. i was not unsympathetic, but his tone was just so... mean. somehow, this story he has doubtlessly told dozens of times, the jist of which is, "you (me, hotoynoodle) are an idiot," winds up with him smiling and asking if he can hug me. UM? WHAT? "uh, maybe after you eat. i prefer hugging after people pay." the son nearly chokes laughing, but i see the old man smolder. he has not gotten his way. "sir, i never hug on the 1st date. please enjoy your meal." and i hightail away. i visit him mid-meal and he's happy as a clam. i stay out of reach.

4 squirming kids and 2 adults. she checks in for her reservation. "great, i have a very nice round table up front for you." "i won't sit in there. i want a table in the back." the kids are crawling and climbing, one of them bouncing himself trampoline-style on a lobby chair.

"unfortunately, i have no tables for 6 in the back. it's full, and this table is very nice."

"it's cold in there."

"i assure you, it's not."

"i don't like it. i want another table."

"there are NO other tables for 6."

"i'll wait."

i think, ok, you will wait, but what about those 4 little kids and your mute castrated husband? it's already 7:30. shouldn't it be bath-time at the shapiro house? i prevaricate. "it will be at least 45 minutes for another table."

finally her husband coaxes her forward. all the while she is muttering how "it better not be cold, if it's cold, it will ruin my meal, it better not be cold, i'm always cold." (yeah, i bet.)

the father asks the boy where he would like to sit. "where it's warm. i hate eating when i'm cold." torch passed.

this happens many times a day. countless times a week. as long as i have been at this, i don't "get" the petty power play. it's fucking dinner, that's all. it's not a corporate buy-out, it's not leaping the queue at the country club, it's not getting a birkin bag before your neighbor. this is not lunch at nyc's four seasons nor a toyota executives' banquet. just sit the fuck down. you're not cowing me or impressing me. nope. i'm thinking how small and petty is your life, and how glad i am not to be you.

i know they blame others. it's their life, ya know? we all make choices.

"chance of a lifetime"

one of my restaurants has a mother-daughter duo working there. they are lovely women, both with very nice husbands and the daughter's 2 girls couldn't be sweeter. i like them.

the mother comes from an insanely large family, and produced one of her own. the daughter never finished high school. info that was offered weirdly, it's never something i would ask. (or think really; that's way out of my life's context, but i work with a few kids like that here.) they are both natives in a very affluent town, but are of the working class who fix and clean the homes of the range rover drivers.

next month they are taking a trip to the old sod. 100% irish extraction, 2nd and 3rd generation, it's been a life-long dream of both. the mother came into a very small inheritance (it had to be divvied up so many ways!) and decided to take the plunge and blow the cash. they both keep calling this 5-day trip "the chance of a lifetime."the daughter is 28 and has never been on a plane. while i am happy to see how excited both are as the days count down, it also saddens me to see their perspective. that they see their lots in life as so fixed. only a windfall has made this possible, so unless somebody else much more well-to-do drops dead, they're never going anyplace again.

as much of a pit as i feel i am in now, as much as i've gnashed my teeth in here and in lawyers' offices over these last months, i really believe my situation is temporary. shoes and trips will again be in the budget. this is just a bad patch, and they happen to most. (mark twain and donald trump both filed for bankruptcy. they kept going, right?)

the owner would say i'm trying to frame them in my world-view, and he's right. maybe they are perfectly content. i don't know. i hope they are, you know? however, i don't think it's a bad thing for me to want more out of life.

as seen here

disclaimer: this is actually more of a "heard here" because i couldn't really bear to look.

her voice leaped harsh and bitter over all the other subway noise,
"... and maybe just fah fuckin' once ya could try not lyin' ta me." shrill, coarse -- too many marlboros and too many defeats. i glanced sideways. a tall boy, hunched, broken, his big hands on a stroller. inside was a wriggling giggling infant. the mother, tiny, a vicious girl-starling with a sharp nose and mean lips. she leaned into the baby and said, "don't get used ta seein' daddy cuz he's goin' home. i dunno know whayuh the fuck weah goin'. we can't go back to the sheltah, cuz they think you have aids."

yeah. she was talking to the baby. mercifully, i lost some of the thread as a train came and went...

"oh, and when yahr back in jail? what the fuck happens then, huh? nobody will take dah fuckin' kid cuz everybody thinks he has fuckin' aids. it's yah fault!"

both parents were teens and even so both knew life would never be more than a long chain of these moments. accusations, retaliations, hate, anger, hopelessness. tangles with the law and social services. broken teeth, bloody noses and a kid who will not do well in school.

i watched her feed her baby emotional poison. i felt sweaty and sick.

my train came and i went to work. they were still fighting. well, just she, you know?

do little

nope, not another reference to the wacky doctor in that technicolor spectacle. tonight there will be no frolicking in puddleby or erotic exploring of the insides of that giant pink snail.

rather, i mean the aggregate output of most restaurant managers. i'm not quite sure how many of them get there. it's certainly not part of that "when i grow up i wanna be..." essay, now is it? but i suppose when most of them fall in, they stick around (or bounce around) because other than grueling hours and mediocre pay, they coast. it seems for most, spending all those hours at work is little hardship since they have such arid outside lives. (no digression here on the husbands hiding from their families.)

i could count on one hand how many dynamoes i've worked with in my career. positive, upbeat guys always on the move, always anticipating, aware of everything -- even stuff they don't see. eyes in the back of their heads? but they make everybody kick it up and feel energized.

i would need an army's worth of digits to tally the drunks, the gamblers, the cokeheads, those in questionable liaisons with staff, the vanishers and the comically inept. we had one we called the "void monkey," since that seemed all he could do. oh, and drink coca-cola by the gallon. (did they not have it in his native hungary?)

the vast majority are just lazy. recently i had two projects that needed cooperation from various managers to succeed. my itinerant schedule means i can't cheerlead in 2 places at the same time. they blatantly ignored both my pleas and printed invites and refused to pump their staffs. the events failed to attract attendees -- because nobody knew about them. in a meeting today, i was informed that unless a dictum came down from j.s.j.**, "do this or fucking else," nothing would happen. essentially they will do it in the future to avoid an ass-reaming, and that's the model they have created and feed in this company. ooh, nellie, don't want independent thought or enterprise! or ambition! ahhhhhh, noooooooooooooooo!!

today i had alot of work. alot. yet, every time i went for a glass of water or to stretch my legs, i saw the m.o.d. (yeah, ok, the guy is nice, but an idiot) sitting at the bar watching a soccer match. i understood it was a very important game, however, could have thought of 10 other things that needed tending. and what kind of example does that set? i have never seen him bus a table, take an order or work one minute past his scheduled time. however to jsj, he's a warm body on the floor who can cash out the servers and doesn't make trouble.

my disinclination to jog set aside, i am not a slothful worker. i feel proprietary in my places of employ and like a challenge. however, the ton of bricks has fallen for the last time. i do not kiss ass well. i do not draw overt attention to my achievements. i do not throw other people under the bus or back-stab to save face. i don't believe negative reinforcement and creating a culture of fear makes for a good work environment. i hate being micro-managed and distrusted for no reason other than jsj's paranoia and bad faith in people.

i want a life outside my work.

in an effort to cut costs, one of the gm's has forbidden his staff to drink soda. it's out of a gun and costs pennies. they can have coffee, but no milk or sugar. fucking prison is more generous with the bevs.

i need out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

to prevent confusion, the business owner will now be referred to by his initials (not the actual, but i'll use an inside joke for them) and the owner will heretofore be called "the owner". he's not *my* owner, since i don't *have* him, but that's not for this footnote, and perhaps it's time for this blog to begin a slightly different path of exploration.

see blog title.