no children were harmed in the writing of this post

Not long ago, I was at work and I happened to pass by the bar and caught a snippet of a conversation.  There was a couple sitting there, regulars, eating and drinking and chatting with the bartender.

Mr and Mrs Smith, lets say, are the type of people that make working in the restaurant business a dream.  They are super polite and friendly, without being overbearing or intrusive.  They are always well aware that while they are out having a good time, you are working.  And they respect that.  They never demand too much of your time or attention, but they have no problem engaging you in genuine conversation if you have a few minutes to spare.  Best of all, they treat you as a human being; as an equal . . . despite the real fact that (technically speaking) you are serving them.  They are always dressed nicely, but never over the top.  Sometimes, they come in after spending the day on their boat or with friends, and they're all in t-shirts and shorts.  But they never look like they've just rolled out of bed.  Mrs Smith has a nice diamond wedding ring on her finger.  I never caught what she did (or still does) for a living.  Mr Smith works for an airline.  They've got money, I presume.  Enough money to be relatively comfortable, though they don't have a snobbish bone in their bodies.  Mr Smith is balding, and Mrs Smith is the sort of women who still has her nice features, and who looks great with her silver hair.

The conversation with the bartender revolved around children, and I take it they'd been chatting for a bit on the subject.  Not surprising, since just about everyone I work with has kids, and people with kids tend to talk about their kids . . . even at work . . . and to complete strangers.

I wonder why that is?  I don't have any kids, myself, though I've helped to raise a few.  I was ten years old when my little brother was born, and right from the get-go I was changing diapers, bathing, dressing, feeding and burping him.  His father (my step-father) was not much of a 'hands-on' kind of dad back then.  Most Latino men aren't actually.  For the most part, they take their 'parental' roll as getting their wives pregnant and posing for the photo-ops.  But they don't actually want to change diapers and wake up in the middle of the night to rock the baby back to sleep.  That's 'mom' work.  Of course, that's a bit of a cultural and generational stereotype, but there's some truth to it.  Just ask my step-father.

I filled in the gaps as my brother grew up.  I felt like it was biggest responsibility of my young life, and I took it very seriously.  By the time I was grown and my older brother and sister started cranking out the kids, I was well prepared.  I found nothing daunting about child rearing.  It was old hat for me.  Still, I wonder if I ever bored people with talk of my niece or nephew?  I doubt it.  Probably because they weren't actually my kids to brag about.  And probably because it's not my style.  I know most parents do, though.  And I suppose there's nothing actually wrong with talking about your kids to whomever might listen.  The only caveat should be that you talk about them to a willing and receptive audience.  I've always detested people who think their kids are God's gift and can do no wrong; or that they are so brilliant and fascinating that you'd be a fool to miss out on every achievement their child makes; or whose children are far too special to order anything 'off the menu.'  Worst of all, I hate people who plaster their kids accomplishments on the rear bumpers and windshields of their cars. "My son is an honor student and Blah Blah Academy".  "My daughter plays rugby".  Really?  Nobody gives a shit, expect you.  And maybe your kid.  So feel free to stop sharing with the rest of us.  We didn't ask.

As I strolled past the bar, I heard Mrs Smith say quite calmly, "I never understand why people feel sorry for me when I tell them I don't have any kids.  It was a conscious choice.  I'm not childless . . . I'm child free."

"Amen!" I answered.  And I heard the Smiths both giggle as I walked away.

I realized then why they always seemed so happy when they came into the restaurant, and why they always took their time to eat and drink.  Why they always seemed so well-dressed and put together.  Why Mrs Smith's hair always looked so nice, and why Mr Smith always tipped so well.  They have no kids.

More importantly, Mrs Smith's assertion about being "child free" made me think in general about the arrogance of people with kids, especially in the United States, and especially Christians in the United States.  There's a huge segment of our population who think that having children and propagating the species is the end-all-be-all, and that anyone who isn't littering the planet with their offspring is either crazy, lazy, misguided, a heathen, or simply not a very good Christian.  It's as though one isn't complete without children, and ones life is devoid of any real meaning.  They go around, consciously or not, judging anyone who didn't make the same commitment they did, to embark on a life of parenting.  It's asinine, and it's so commonplace.  But hearing Mrs Smith reminded me of how awesome it is when you choose a path for yourself and commit to it, no matter how unpopular.  It's when you do that you can live with your head held high, without the slightest inclination to offer up excuses for your choices.

Well played!

what's past is past . . . (most of the time)

I'm not really sure why, but I'm not a very nostalgic person.  I mean to say, I don't wax nostalgic about things or people in my past.  I guess if I think about it, I'm a very 'in the moment' kinda guy.  I don't know if I was always this way, but I'm certainly this way now.

The reason I mention it, is because for whatever reason, I was Google-ing a bunch of Chicago stuff.  Probably because I'll be there in a month.  I started thinking about the stuff I want to see, because I want to document it somewhat.  This is because my summer trip will be the first time since I moved away in 2001 that I will be visiting Chicago on my own terms.  I'm not going for someone else's event, or some crisis.  I'm going for myself.  And as such, I'm giving some thought to what I want to do and where I want to go exploring.

In this frame of mind, as I think about the city I grew up in, I have no choice but to dig into the old memory banks to envision the city and the things and places I loved about it.  This is because its been forever since I actually lived there.  I've got nothing to go on but memories.  And forcing myself to go back in time has made me realize that I never go back in time.  I mean, I never really give much thought to the things I used to do or the people I used to know.  And I wonder why that is?

It's not as though I don't keep in touch with people from my past.  Pretty much all of my core friends are friends I have know for 15 years or more.  And most of them are still in Chicago.  So, I've hung onto people.  But I suppose I don't give much thought to the people I haven't hung onto (or who haven't hung onto me).  Maybe that's cos I just accept that in one's lifetime, many people will float in and out of one's life.  And though in that moment in time, it may seem as though they will be in your life til the day you die, that's not often the case.  People move on, figuratively and literally.  You move on.  And that's that.  It's the nature of things.  Life goes on.

I mean, if I think about it, I've had friends that I was so attached to, I probably couldn't imagine living without them . . . while I knew them.  And today, I haven't the foggiest idea where they are or what they are up to or what kind of people they turned out to be.  And what's more, I never give it any thought.  So I guess that means I'm pretty unsentimental.  Or maybe I'm just realistic?

An extreme example of my lack of nostalgia involves my father, by which I mean my actual, biological father.  He and my mom were divorced shortly after I was born.  And then my mother remarried in haste, and the family moved to Chicago to start anew, never to return to Puerto Rico.  We did go back, of course.  Every summer, my mother would pack us up and make us spend our summer vacations in Puerto Rico, bonding with the relatives.  It was torture for me as a child, but I had no choice but to obey.  Inevitably, part of the summer would be spent with my father (and his new wife and kids).  My mother thought it was vital that we spend time with him, even though every year that passed, he became more and more of a stranger to me and I felt no bond with him whatsoever.

Eventually in our teens, my mother actually asked my brother and I if we wanted to go to Puerto Rico for the summer.  Immediately, we said "NO!"  Not just because going there meant stepping back in time somewhat, to interact with a strict, Catholic family that was still living in the Dark Ages in many ways.  But because as kids living in Chicago, and being cooped up and bundled up for so many months of the year during our frigid winters, we looked forward to the summertime with so much anticipation.  That's when everyone went out, did things, partied, had fun, etc.  And every summer, my brother and I were whisked away to spend it with our dull, stiff family, only to return to Chicago to hear about all the fun our friends had while we were away.  It sucked.  Once our mother finally gave us the option to stay in the city or go to the island, the choice was an easy one to make, especially for me, who had secretly grown to detest my father and  most of my other relatives by that point.  Free at last!

A few years ago, when my mother retired and decided to move back to her homeland, she got a visit from her first husband, my father.  I guess in his old age, he wanted to see my mom and reconcile with her for past wrongs.  I can understand that.  After all, he was a real shit to her.  Oddly enough, my mother was very indifferent about seeing him again, which surprised me.  She had always defended him in my youth, and I can remember many a lecture given to me whenever I spoke ill of him or expressed how little I cared for him.   "He is your father," she would tell me, "and one day he will need you."  I couldn't have cared less.  This was a man who never sent me a birthday card or a Christmas present.  I resented even having to pretend that I liked him.  But pretend I did, because it's what my mother wanted.  She was so determined that we have a "relationship" with him.  But how can you have a relationship with someone whom you don't even know?

Shortly after his visit to see my mother, she called me.  She spoke about it so matter-of-factly that I was genuinely surprised.  I suppose she had moved on in every way there was to move on from the heartbreak and disappointment.  To her, it must have seemed a lifetime ago, and a bit absurd for the two of them to have any kind of intimate dialog.  But she didn't call me to confess that.  She called to let me know that my father was very, very interested in seeing me.  I guess she wanted to give me the head's up.  He'd already seen my brother, and I was next on his list, I guess.  She said he expressed a genuine desire to get to know me.

He Facebook friend requested me.  That was like six years ago.  And I haven't accepted his request yet.  I'm not on Facebook all that much anyway, but when people bitch to me that I haven't accepted their friend request quickly enough, I chime back that my own father has been waiting for years to has his friend request accepted.  And he's still waiting.  Well, I doubt he's waiting.  He was never really into things for the long haul.  I'm sure he's forgotten all about it by now.   He made his gesture.

But my point is that after someone ceases to matter in your life, that's pretty much it . . . most of the time.  I mean, it's hard to look back, or to intertwine your existence with someone else's when they've left your life for some period of time.  At least, it is for me.  Not that I am against the notion of having wonderful people return into my life.  Not at all.  I'm totally open to reuniting when the circumstances allow.  But I guess I'm content with what I have at the moment.  Or I consciously or unconsciously don't dwell on the past.  I'm just not overly sentimental.  And that's that.  

sharing . . . but not caring

It's amazing how less stressful one's life becomes when one stops giving a shit.  I happen to be one of those rare people that don't really care about much.  When I say that I don't care, I guess I mean that I don't worry over much.  Weird, because my mom is a worrier, and that kind of stuff oftentimes gets passed along generationally.  But not with me.  

I pride myself in being pretty oblivious about a lot of the things that the average American loses sleep over.  I stopped reading newspapers (they still have those?) years ago.  And I gave up on network news in my twenties.  I don't watch reality shows, I don't read tabloids.  I have no idea what is going on in the lives of all the famous people of the world: Hollywood movie stars, pop stars, professional athletes, royal families, etc.  I just don't care.

I just don't find other peoples' lives fascinating.   And it's not because my own life is so bloody fascinating.  But I'd rather ponder my own existence than someone else's.  Especially when the lives in question are the lives of people whom I personally don't know, or will never know.  Why should I keep up with their drama?  Do they care about mine?  Of course not.  They don't know a damn thing about me.  And I'd like to keep the playing field level by knowing as little as possible about them.  Hey, fair is fair.

Now, if I love a particular actor or sports personality, I do keep up with them in their chosen profession.  I catch them plying their trade as often as I can . . . on TV . . . or at the cinema . . . or at the ballpark.  But do I wonder what their favorite color is, or if they wear boxers or briefs?  Nope.  

Perhaps the reason I care so little about the general public is because I used to care so much.  I mean, as a youngster I tried very, very hard to be liked.  In fact, I fretted quite a bit about it.  I wanted to be everyone's best friend - at least, everyone I knew.  I wanted my teachers to love me, and the nuns and priests at school.  And I wanted to be the perfect son, too.  I wanted so much for everyone to like me and be proud of me.  I put a lot of pressure on myself, cos it's very hard (if not impossible) to be all things to all people.  

Needless to say, there was massive stress involved.  I was constantly on edge, though I disguised it with my natural charm and sense of humor.  Outwardly, my strategy was very successful.  Lots of people really liked me.  I mean, I wasn't the most popular person in school or anything, but I was popular enough.  My parents were happy, the priests and nuns were satisfied, my teachers thought I was gonna grow up to be somebody.  Inwardly, I was exhausted.   And I drank.  A lot.  By the time I was a  17-year-old senior, I was drinking every day.  And failing school, crumbling under the pressure of being Wonder Dude.  

Reaching rock bottom can kill you or save you.  For me, it was the reality check I needed to start thinking for myself for the first time in my life.  I shook the cobwebs out of my brain and started asking myself what it was that I wanted out of life.  Did I want to become a raging alcoholic?  Did I want to be a high school drop-out?  Did I want to follow other peoples' vision of how my life should unfold, or did I want to take ownership and responsibility for my own future??

Slowly, I began to learn what it took to live my own life the way I saw fit.  Little by little, I discarded all of the things I felt were unnecessary.  Institutions were the first to go.  I stopped going to church.  I stopped confessing my sins.  I dropped out of college and started traveling, trying to see a little of the world.  My circle of friends became smaller and smaller as I became more aware of the sort of people I wanted to be around.  And, in general, I stopped giving a fuck.

The years have come and gone, and it seems that the older I've gotten, the less I've worried about things beyond my control.  I place my focus on the things and the people that really matter to me.  I watch cartoons, sports, sci-fi movies . . . anything that has the power to whisk me away and make me forget about the the misery of the world and the horrible people who populate it.

I don't give much thought to much.  To some, it might seem like I'm apathetic.  Like I'm not engaged in the world around me.  And in truth, I'm not very.  I work in the service industry, and I'm great at it.  And it requires that I engage with people and try to develop some sort of relationship with them, even if it's just for the time that they are in the restaurant.  I do my job very well.  But when I am off the clock and on my own time, I retreat into my own world.  I watch movies or listen to music.  I never walk out of my house and into public places without headphones on my head.  Because the only thing I am interested in is tuning out as much of the world as possible.

I grew up super shy.  Then I morfed into the class clown in order to be liked.  And then I grew to become more and more antisocial and detached from all the bullshit of life as I came to the realization that I really just don't care about anything except the things and the people that really matter . . . to me.  

design? damn yes . . . design!

I (supposedly) have a degree in Graphic Design.  Not that I care very much, and not that I’ve ever used it in the real world in order to make money.  Going to school kinda takes the stuffing out of you.  There’s the societal pressure to finish; the family pressure; the pressure one puts on one’s self.  There’s the debt you rack up and the lifetime it takes to pay that debt off.  And there’s that big cloud hanging over you once you finish, that now you gotta get out into the real world with that degree and make something of yourself.  Be a success. 

Going to school can also wear you out to the point that the stuff you were all passionate about when you started, kinda turns into a big pain in your side.  You can lose the love you had for something, the joy it gave you, because you’ve just spent years grinding out assignments and projects and taking exams that were forced upon you by professors, and not entirely of your own doing.  That’s sort of what happened to me.  First time around, I went to school for art.  I liked it, I was into it.  What I wasn’t into was actually being at university.  At the time, the only thing I was truly interested in was NOT being at home.  Not the best foundation for a successful stint at college.

Second time around, I was a little older.  And I had this notion that I wanted to do something more . . . substantive than “art”.  I thought I’d go to school for International Relations and Diplomacy, because . . . well, really only because I liked the notion of traveling to distant lands.  I mean, how else was I going to see the world?  The military?  No way.  Becoming a millionaire and transforming myself into a globe-trotting jetsetter?  Not likely.  Well, maybe working in some sort of diplomatic capacity and being sent abroad to liason with folks from afar?  Okay, why not?  I’ll tell you why not.  Because dealing with the minefield that is politics and power and conflict and bullshitting is the LAST thing I’d want to do with my life.  So much for that.

Third time out, it was back to art school.  But this time, for something a little more ‘grounded’ career-wise.  I started graphic design because I had a genuine knack for it.  And it was an interesting time when so much technology was sneaking its way into the art field.  Suddenly, you were spending far more time with a mouse in your hand than with a pencil.   Your paper was your computer screen.  It was up to each artist to embrace or forego the technological tools that were becoming more and more mainstream.  The learning curves were steep at times, and the programs pretty complex.  But there were still opportunities to sketch and paint and work with your hands.  I took writing classes and acting and voice classes.  I took photography and darkroom.  I did a little bit of everything, really.  But by the end, I was sick of it all. 

I was sick of staring at a monitor for hours on end, moving text and photos around by the millimeter.  I was sick of shooting tons of rolls of film with my camera, and then spending hours developing then and printing photo after photo.  I was sick of writing short stories and I was sick of performing on stage.  I guess my imagination needed a time out.  I got my degree, but the last thing I wanted to do was get a job at a Chicago advertising firm and spend my days in a cubicle, helping to design toothpaste ads.  I needed to be out of an office just as much as I needed to be out of a classroom.  So, I set forth to satisfy my longing to travel.  And I began moving around the country, working here and working there, almost always in the service industry.  Because once you learn how to wait tables and bartend, you can pretty much do it anywhere, and at any level.

It has taken quite a few years to get my creative juices flowing again.  I love photography.  I only wish I had more time to shoot, (and lived somewhere a lot more inspiring than Florida).  I love design.  I say I don’t, but I can spend hours moving letters around a page on a screen, and not be the slightest bit bored.  I’ve done little design projects for people I know.  I’m responsible for the photography and design of the website of the restaurant where I work now, and though I used a template, I’m always getting compliments on how nice it looks.  I did the menus and business cards, too.  And I design things for myself whenever the mood strikes.  Those are the projects I like best. 

Case in point:  I ran across a lame, little business card I designed for myself a few years ago.  It was in its early stages, and then I stopped working on it, probably because I’m not that in demand that I need to give out business cards to people I meet.  There was a little logo in the corner of the initials of my given name:  CERW.  It was crude, but for whatever reason, I spent four or five hours on it trying to bring it to the next level.  Not that I needed it for anything.  Just cos.  Next thing you know . . voilà . . . personal logo finished.  And I like it.

So I guess there’s still a designer in me deep down, aching to be set free.  

talkin' like a white guy

At work last night, I walked up to a table of black people . . . a family . . . husband, wife, grandma, and two kids, one a teen-aged girl, and a boy of about 12.  I asked if I could get anyone a drink, and started jotting down the order.  All the while, the grandmother was staring at her menu laughing.  I went around the table until I got to her.  She told me to give her a second to compose herself.  I waited. Finally, she said, "A glass of Merlot."  While I wrote, she asked me to wait so that she could explain the reason for her unabashed merriment.  She said quite calmly that she was looking down at her menu when I first came to the table, and that upon hearing my voice, she was startled to see me standing there.  "You see," she said, "Your voice doesn't match what you look like."

I stood there during an awkward moment of silence, before excusing myself from the table in order to get their drinks.  And I rolled my eyes as I stood in front of the computer placing their order because, in truth, it's been a while since someone has ridiculed my speaking voice . . . to my face.  I got that shit all the time when I was growing up.  I went to a Prep school in Chicago, and there were black kids there of a certain ilk who would call me "Oreo" and say I was black but talked 'white'.   Even when I was at college, I had black kids preaching to me all the time how I had to be more 'black' or get in touch with my roots.  That I was living in self-hatred (cos I didn't like rap music, I guess.  Or cos I sat with a mixed crew of kids, not just the ones who were dark like I was).  I must say, this shit used to bug the daylights outta me, especially since I was always one of those quiet, 'live and let live' type of people.  I never got on a soapbox to tell anyone how they should behave or whom they should rub shoulders with.

There's also the poignant fact that I was (and still am, as far as I know) Latino.  I was born in Puerto Rico, my family is from Puerto Rico, Spanish is my first language.  I came to the States when I was 10, and my mother, a staunch educator, was determined that her children not speak English with the same accent that she did.  We went to Catholic school, my brother and I, and we were taught from an early age how to speak proper American English.  The irony was that our perfect English ostracized us from the other little Latino kids we came across . . . the ones with the thick accents.  But that was the history of our education in this country.  Yet all the education in the world was never going to lighten our skin.  It was what it was.

As an adult, I've less of that cultural bullshit to deal with, probably because I just don't associate with ignorant people.  I choose not to.  That doesn't mean I'm immune to it.  Just living in Florida for the better part of 10 years has been hysterical.  You hear things you couldn't make up yourself, and in 'professional' settings, too!  I've had restaurant managers ask me things like, "How did you get a name like 'Carlos'?  Isn't that a Spanish name?"  I've shown up at an interview and had the manager say, "I was expecting a little Mexican dude."  Truly.  At an interview.  Maybe they thought they were being funny, I don't know.  But as a big city guy, I just sit there quietly and remind myself that the state of Florida is basically just a glorified trailer park.  "You voted for that Obama, didn't ya?"

Last night's table was just a little reminder of how, when we least expect it, someone is quick to judge you based on something as seemingly innocuous as the timber of your voice, or the name you were given at birth, much less the color of your skin.  I suppose it's really not all that surprising if you think about it.  In United States, we're professionals at pigeon-holing the next guy.

But it's not every day any more that someone laughs at me . . . for talkin' like a white guy.

cooooolllll . . .

I've always had this idea that once I have a bar of my very own, the 'uniform' will be whatever I want it to be at that moment in time.  I don't envision having my employees walking around in polo shirts with a logo on them that says "Carlos's Bar".  No way.  I'm never naming a place after myself.  And I'm never having anyone wear polos.

Me being kindof swanky, and wanting a (neighborhood) bar that will offer stuff that no other bar around will have, naturally, I want to stand out a little.  Years ago, I had this idea that I would have my employees walking around in t-shirts of their own making.  Each t-shirt would be an original design.  Or there would be some poignant fact about the individual wearing the shirt.  A fact which would surprise and unnerve every customer reading the shirt.  This idea stemmed from the fact that I have met such interesting, diverse, intelligent and talented people in the service industry.  People with talents, abilities and gifts that no customer would be able to glean from watching them make a cocktail or serve a meal.

It is generally understood that people in the service industry are in it because they can't find a "real" job.  Obviously, my beliefs run contrary to this notion.  While it is true that I have worked with some real nutjobs over the years, I have also worked with people with Masters degrees, ex-military, artists, entrepreneurs, moms, dads, and those who viewed service as a second career not to be scoffed at.  I've worked alongside people raising children, people in stable homes and relationships, people saving money to jump-start their dreams . . . AWESOME people of every shape and size, from countless countries, and from every background.

These people are often taken for granted in a nightclub, bar or restaurant.  They are looked down upon by patrons, or dismissed as being less than extraordinary simply because they chose to be in the service industry.  I thought it would be a real head-spinner to have my staff wearing t-shirts of their own making, espousing their own talents.  The hot cocktail waitress looking thoroughly unapproachable could wear a t-shirt saying, "Mother of two."  The muscley stud shaking martinis behind the bar could be wearing one saying, "Degree in dentistry." The Latino barback taking out the trash could have one saying, "Boss."  I think that would be totally cool on so many levels.  And it would fuck with my customers, which I also like.

A second t-shirt idea came to be many years ago, when I was still fairly young and 'cool.'  I've worked at some 'cool' places.  I've worked for some cool people.  I've worked for people who thought they were a lot 'cooler' than they actually were.  And GOD KNOWS, I've served a bazillion customers in my lifetime who thought they were infinitely more cool than I ever was or ever could be.  Here's the deal.  I'M ACTUALLY COOL.  I mean, sometimes I think to myself that I'm "past it".  And I certainly wouldn't claim to be the coolest dude on earth.   Hell, I don't want to be.  But in truth, every day I come across people that are nowhere near as cool as I am.  And though I say all the time that I'm "too OLD to be cool," well . . . that's not really true.  I've still got it.

Cool is temporary, though.  Cool is relative.  Cool is really not all that much to hang your hat on at the end of the day.  But since bars are always striving to be cool, to be the next great thing, to be hip, current, in the moment . . . and since ultimately, I want to own a bar, I thought that 'cool' would be a great part of our tag line.  So the front of our t-shirts would have the bar's name.  Who knows what I'd call my bar, but for the sake of this post, we'll call it "Superbar."  The front of the t-shirt would read, "Superbar"  with a logo or whatnot.  And on the back?  Every time an employee would turn his back to grab a glass or a beer, you'd see this on the back of his shirt:

"We're cool.  But we're not that cool."

precision is my middle name

So, the other day one of my regular customers asked me (in all seriousness) if I was "ex-military".  Of course, I immediately replied, "Nope, far from it!"  I didn't give it much thought at the time, except to wonder what could have made anyone think I'd spent any time in the armed forces.

I mean, I'm so totally un-military.  I'm not very good at taking orders.  I don't like uniforms.  I've never even held a gun, much less fired one.  And what's more, I have absolutely NO desire to fire a gun, or shoot at anyone, or potentially kill someone.  Add to that, the fact that I went to art school, which is probably the antithesis of military.

But then I thought about how I go about doing my job.  I'm very exact.  I like things done a certain way.  There is a precision about how I like my tables set, and how I make my drinks.  I like consistency, I like everything in its place.  Silverware perfectly aligned, salt and pepper shakers with the labels facing forward.  When I open a bottle of wine, after I pour for the guests, I set the bottle with the label facing the host, and the cork tucked next to the base of the bottle.  When I put a bottle of beer in front of someone, the label is facing the guest, even the label on a specific glass.  I fold a guest's napkin if they leave the table to smoke or go to the bathroom.  I crumb tables at every opportunity, and replace used silverware after every course.

Naturally, I do all of this (and more) because it's just how I do my job.  I can't say I even give it much thought.  It's my job, and there's a certain expectation that I have of myself, and that my customers have of me.

I get a lot of guests requesting me at my restaurant.  Sometimes, it surprises me how many people actually want me to wait on them.  Even here in Cape Coral, which is full of old, old people.  I never thought that my 'shtick" would go over well here.  I have a certain humor that not everyone gets.  But a lot of these old folks LOVE me (and I don't say that to be vain).  Maybe they like my sarcasm; maybe my certain brand of charm.  And maybe they really like my "military" precision, too!

reviewed!

At the restaurant where I work, when we drop the check presenter at a table, we usually include a little card from tripadvisor which tells the guest that they can go to the tripadvisor website and write a review of the restaurant.  Mostly, I never comment on the card unless a customer asks me what it's for or what to do.

Lots of our customers are on holiday, or they are part-time residents, and they use tripadvisor a lot on their travels.  Lots of people say they never even knew about us until they read about us on tripadvisor.  We are a fairly new restaurant, so we are still relatively unknown.  Still, we are usually ranked in the top #5 in the area.

We also get a lot of old people in our restaurant, a lot of whom don't really navigate the internet, or go onto websites to read restaurant reviews.  So the idea of them taking the tripadvisor card is pretty silly.  Still, some of them do make an effort.  We've had people take the card, handwrite a review, and mail it back to us via post, with the tripadvisor card included.  Or we've had people write their actual review on the card itself, and leave it on the table or hand it to us on the way out.

I find something very quaint about those efforts, even though they aren't quite what was initially intended.  This card was handed to me by a very lovely table the other evening, and it prompted me to write this.  Not because it was about me, but because I thought it (and the entire group at the table) was so cute.

2015: the year of me

So, here I am again, and about to start a new adventure.  I'm thinkin' that this will become my primary outlet to blather on about the things I feel, and the things that happen to me . . .  even if it's just for an audience of one.