What is it about people who work in customer service who are neither into the customer or into service? Case in point; The other day I was sitting in my car at a local hamburger joint waiting to place my order. Granted, I should have been eating a veggie sandwich on wheat, extra tomatoes, and honey-mustard dressing from Subway, or a healthy smoothie crafted in my own blender at home, but there is just something about ketchup, mustard, and pickles on a hot hamburger patty bracketed by a bun. Perhaps its because it reminds me of childhood days; cookouts in the back yard, or 4th of July gatherings with family and friends waiting for the extravagant fireworks display, or Labor Day weekend block parties when all the neighborhood kids and parents got together to celebrate the passing of summer. I don’t know, but back to the order box.
“Can I take your order?” she sighed
“Yes, I’d like number 12”
“Whatchu want ta drink?”
“Coke, please”
“Anything else???” as if I’d better not trouble her any more than I already have.
“No, that will do, thank you”
“Drive around for your total”
What? Drive around for my total? The machine is right in front of you! Why can’t you give me the total now? O.K., so I drive around to the pick-up window. What I’m greeted with as a young woman who, judging from the look on her face, must have just found out that her house had burned to the ground and all of her shoes went up with it, or that she had just learned of her boyfriend sleeping with her best friend.
“How are you?” I asked with a smile.
“FINE!” she snarled. Yikes! Sorry I asked.
“$5.62” said she. I gave her a Hamilton and she returned the change, making quite sure she didn’t touch my hand in the exchange. After all, we wouldn’t want my pleasant disposition rubbing off on her. She handed me the drink, complete with soda running down the outside of the cup which I have to clean off with a napkin from the glove box. When I looked back at her I saw a bag dangling out of the window and her eyes piercing me, no doubt because of the great amount of time that had elapsed since the drink came forth. I took the bag, wish her a good day not expecting a response, none given, and drove along my merry way. Now, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to think she was just having a bad day, or that some awful trauma was haunting her life, but that wouldn’t explain every other occasion to which I have experienced her glowing charm and polished interpersonal skills. Honey, no one is holding a gun to your head. If you don’t like your job or don’t like people, then please do us a favor and change professions. You might be happier as a lighthouse keeper, a crocodile wrangler, or shoveling snow at one of the Antarctica research stations.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Affairs of the Gallus domesticus
The drama begins at 4:15 am. Whoever made that damning statement to the truth, declaring roosters crow at first light, had never been awakened by the “first call” or, they lived in the city. So much for expertise. I, along with my new best friend Insomnia, have been awake to hear the call of the domesticated warrior. And so the day begins, long before first light.
Amongst my first chores of the day is to release the feathery ladies from their keep. If I am tardy to this event they are sure to advise that peace and tranquility will not be restored until their demands are met. Upon release I am granted instant gratification as the stage is now set for the morning’s first act.
It begins with the same game, “How many girls can we squeeze through a small opening at the same time”, concurrently with “Can I pass through this wire if I try hard enough?” Proof that Ron Hubbard is wrong. I have yet to witness Shredded Tweet!
The morning dance and display put on by Cogburn the rooster is an amusing sight. It is his dogmatic belief that all the girls should perform this dance with him. This is not the same tenet held by the girls, however. So the chase begins. Cogburn is not the fastest bird in the yard but makes up for it with his inexhaustible will. The mating rituals of Gallus domesticus are rather barbaric in the eyes of some. Either way, it is a spectacle. One morning Cogburn became congruent with this bestial notion. The ladies had not yet been released from their pen, which is a prerequisite to the conjugal tango, but Cogburn lost his sense of decorum. While his focus was having a sip, Cogburn pounced on her back driving her head under the water. Had they been swine she would have drowned, but roosters are more akin to flashpaper and so she escaped a terrible fate.
First light has long since passed. Cogburn is busy finding interesting morsels to proffer. He calls out with an excitable garble as he proclaims “Look at this! How wonderful” and bequeaths it to the objects of his affection. Such the gentleman is he. The girls ungrudgingly snack it down.
Grapes make for exciting play. As I take up my usual station on the deck, they flock to a spot where they know the goodies will appear. It makes no mind how many grapes I toss at once, it always turns into a rugby match. A grape is snatched up and the featherhead begins to run. The others join in the pursuit to see if they can steal away the undeniably best fruit. All the while the other grapes sit, awaiting their consumption.
There are currently a dozen birds in the flock. No, make that thirteen. Two of the girls suffering from Excessive Excitement Syndrome were relocated to a neighboring farm. The other night while locking the pen and doing the ritual head count I noticed that one of the girls had made a jail break and returned to her favorite roost. I suppose she didn’t like the victuals there. She’s been quiet ever since.
And so evening sets in. The birds are on their roosts, tucked in for the night. I check to see that they have water, top off their food, and collect the reason for this symbiotic relationship. They know my presence and cluck a few good nights, Walton’s style. It’s good for the soul to keep chickens! I, for one, am a better man because of it.
Amongst my first chores of the day is to release the feathery ladies from their keep. If I am tardy to this event they are sure to advise that peace and tranquility will not be restored until their demands are met. Upon release I am granted instant gratification as the stage is now set for the morning’s first act.
It begins with the same game, “How many girls can we squeeze through a small opening at the same time”, concurrently with “Can I pass through this wire if I try hard enough?” Proof that Ron Hubbard is wrong. I have yet to witness Shredded Tweet!
The morning dance and display put on by Cogburn the rooster is an amusing sight. It is his dogmatic belief that all the girls should perform this dance with him. This is not the same tenet held by the girls, however. So the chase begins. Cogburn is not the fastest bird in the yard but makes up for it with his inexhaustible will. The mating rituals of Gallus domesticus are rather barbaric in the eyes of some. Either way, it is a spectacle. One morning Cogburn became congruent with this bestial notion. The ladies had not yet been released from their pen, which is a prerequisite to the conjugal tango, but Cogburn lost his sense of decorum. While his focus was having a sip, Cogburn pounced on her back driving her head under the water. Had they been swine she would have drowned, but roosters are more akin to flashpaper and so she escaped a terrible fate.
First light has long since passed. Cogburn is busy finding interesting morsels to proffer. He calls out with an excitable garble as he proclaims “Look at this! How wonderful” and bequeaths it to the objects of his affection. Such the gentleman is he. The girls ungrudgingly snack it down.
Grapes make for exciting play. As I take up my usual station on the deck, they flock to a spot where they know the goodies will appear. It makes no mind how many grapes I toss at once, it always turns into a rugby match. A grape is snatched up and the featherhead begins to run. The others join in the pursuit to see if they can steal away the undeniably best fruit. All the while the other grapes sit, awaiting their consumption.
There are currently a dozen birds in the flock. No, make that thirteen. Two of the girls suffering from Excessive Excitement Syndrome were relocated to a neighboring farm. The other night while locking the pen and doing the ritual head count I noticed that one of the girls had made a jail break and returned to her favorite roost. I suppose she didn’t like the victuals there. She’s been quiet ever since.
And so evening sets in. The birds are on their roosts, tucked in for the night. I check to see that they have water, top off their food, and collect the reason for this symbiotic relationship. They know my presence and cluck a few good nights, Walton’s style. It’s good for the soul to keep chickens! I, for one, am a better man because of it.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The Great Morel
I walked into the woods this morn
Along a path that’s gently worn
It weaves it’s way around the trees
The fresh new leaves set me at ease
The stillness in the air is frail
The rabbit hides behind the vale
The ground is damp with morning dew
My focus steady, straight, and true
The spider’s architectural grace
Now sits bedaubed upon my face
The threads of silk so fine and pure
My vision lost, so premature
But once again I start my flight
Guided by diffracted light
To seek the cache is still my goal
It's lust affects my very soul
And so I hunt the great Morels
In lush green hills and wooded dells
The elusive epicurean delight
I quest for it with all my might
Along a path that’s gently worn
It weaves it’s way around the trees
The fresh new leaves set me at ease
The stillness in the air is frail
The rabbit hides behind the vale
The ground is damp with morning dew
My focus steady, straight, and true
The spider’s architectural grace
Now sits bedaubed upon my face
The threads of silk so fine and pure
My vision lost, so premature
But once again I start my flight
Guided by diffracted light
To seek the cache is still my goal
It's lust affects my very soul
And so I hunt the great Morels
In lush green hills and wooded dells
The elusive epicurean delight
I quest for it with all my might
Monday, April 12, 2010
Good Dog!
A mouse found its way into the bedroom this morning. The dog was busy trying to assassinate him. I moved all "skyscrapers" so the two cats would have an easy time of it. Looking under the bed I see both cats and mouse, sitting, "sipping tea". I pulled the extension cord, mouse shot out, dog moved in with lightning precision, flung the mouse against the wall, put the chomp on him. Mouse terminated. Cats FIRED! Good dog. Extra treats!
Friday, April 9, 2010
Ripples of My Life
The ripples on this pond seem like
The thousand pages of my life
They come and go with little sound
Yet in their depths is where I’m found
The actors, players on this stage
Recite the chapters page by page
Through every crest and trough they ride
And give accounts both far and wide
The waves absorb the pure white light
And give off colors dazzling bright
The tints and tones, the shades and hues
Perceptual insights as they muse
But who is watching my aquatic show
And so I wonder if they’ll know
The gentle man I’ve grown to be
Or is it lost to anonymity
And as the ripples slowly fade
I watch the end of this parade
Knowing too my life will cease
And pass into eternal peace
The thousand pages of my life
They come and go with little sound
Yet in their depths is where I’m found
The actors, players on this stage
Recite the chapters page by page
Through every crest and trough they ride
And give accounts both far and wide
The waves absorb the pure white light
And give off colors dazzling bright
The tints and tones, the shades and hues
Perceptual insights as they muse
But who is watching my aquatic show
And so I wonder if they’ll know
The gentle man I’ve grown to be
Or is it lost to anonymity
And as the ripples slowly fade
I watch the end of this parade
Knowing too my life will cease
And pass into eternal peace
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
A Different Snow
A Different Snow
The clouds of pollen that I’ve seen
Paint the Earth a yellow-green
Billowing, billows choke the nose
Move like locust as it flows
It drapes, it smothers, covering all
It’s in the kitchen and the hall
Voracious appetite, unquenchable lust
For all in it’s path, is covered in dust
Indomitable force, seizing at will
Consuming all life as if it’s stood still
But in the distance, what’s that I hear
The sound of thunder, the rain is near
The only foe with power to stop
Beginning the fight with the very first drop
And now the rivers of yellow are seen
Soon the landscape will once more be clean
The clouds of pollen that I’ve seen
Paint the Earth a yellow-green
Billowing, billows choke the nose
Move like locust as it flows
It drapes, it smothers, covering all
It’s in the kitchen and the hall
Voracious appetite, unquenchable lust
For all in it’s path, is covered in dust
Indomitable force, seizing at will
Consuming all life as if it’s stood still
But in the distance, what’s that I hear
The sound of thunder, the rain is near
The only foe with power to stop
Beginning the fight with the very first drop
And now the rivers of yellow are seen
Soon the landscape will once more be clean
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