Anger Management

I realize that it's been a while since I last posted (as ThursdayNext pointed out in the comments section!). I apologize to my faithful readers, but I've been both unmotivated and had too many time restraints since school began. I'm interning with an art therapist this semester, and although the experience is wonderful, it is also draining and time consuming.

I'll get into internship details another time, as it is an inspiring experience worthy of multiple blog posts. Today, I'm going to rant a little. I am on campus as I type this amazing literary accomplishment. Why am I on campus typing a blog post, you ask? Well, I'm killing time waiting for a phone call from the Dean's secretary. She is currently researching to whom I need to direct my extreme dismay and incredulity that I must PAY a $50 fee in order to apply to graduate.

So, you're telling me that a tuition of between $25,000 and $30,000 a year, additional applied art fees for every class I take, completion of 70 credit hours, and a 4.0 GPA isn't enough? Must you SMACK me in the face with a fee to graduate? Am I not poverty stricken enough? Seriously? FIFTY dollars?

So, here's my question, what if I don't have $50? Does that mean I can't graduate? Because, seriously, I don't have fifty dollars. I don't have $5. I don't have enough money to pay rent which is due in 3 days. I'm crossing my fingers, hoping that the tipping Gods smile upon me this weekend so that I can pay my rent on Sunday. Graduation applications (and their ridiculous FEES) are due by tomorrow!

Now what?

The secretary has just called and informed me who I need to speak with, but she added the caveat "I want to tell you, all colleges have this fee, so don't get your hopes too high."

Should I deflate my spirit's belief that I'm going to graduate after working my ASS of for the last 2 plus years?

Oh, and another funny thing, my wonderful state of residence says that since I make over $10,000 a year, they won't give me any aid. Can you imagine surviving on $10,000 a year?

No wonder my parents were so poor for their entire lives.

Our system is set up for the rich to keep having little rich babies who get ahead, while the rest of us schmucks try and fail to get ahead.

Aaaargh!

When I started, I swear, I didn't mean for this post to sound so negative. I guess today was "use your blog to bitch" day.

More upbeat entry promised next time around. I'm off to fight with the director of student services. Wish me luck!

***Update***

Mr. Director of Student Services was unreachable, not in his office, didn't answer the phone. I was told next to email him. Here's Our email correspondence:

Mr. Director of Student Services ,

I would like to discuss with you the graduation application fee. I anticipate graduating in December. However, I simply cannot afford the fifty dollar fee.

I'm curious what I should do at this point. The application (as I'm sure you know) is due by October 1st, and I have no way of paying the fee. Does this mean that I can't graduate?

I've been informed that you are the person with whom I should speak regarding this matter. Please advise me on what my course of action should be. Should we discuss this in person, on the phone, via email? I commute an hour, and am not on campus tomorrow, but I could make a special trip if that is the best course of action at this point.

I thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.
WiP

His response:

WiP,

The diplomas fee cannot be waived. Do you need an extension of time? If so, that is not a problem but we would have to agree upon a date.

Mr. Director of Student Services

So, there you go. I put the stupid fee on my charge card (while crossing my fingers that it wouldn't be declined). Apparently Mr. DoSS has no desire to communicate further about the fee and its relevance. What I find interesting is that the application states that you must pay this fee every time you APPLY. But he calls it a 'Diploma' fee. It should say, 'Fee must be paid for every DIPLOMA received', right? Can we opt for cheaper diplomas? I want the bargain basement one, it's just a friggin' piece of paper! It's not even a Master's degree! We're talking Bachelor's!

I want to email him back and tell him I'm thinking June 15th of 2020. Can we agree on that date Mr. DoSS?

Anyone?

Do you have to be a computer genious to customize your blog skin?

I'm bored with mine, and with all the other cookie cutter skins. I want to use my creative nature and make mine more mine. But, well, what the hell is the html code for: I want a better look? And what exactly is html? How do I do this? Where do I begin?

Suggestions please.

How Proud am I?

It's been a busy weekend. It's too late, and I'm too tired to offer up details, but we threw a surprise birthday/slumber party for The Girl this weekend and I've been too busy to blog. This post will be another short one, but I have to share because I had a proud parent moment the other day.

The four of us were in the car and Frank Sinatra came on the radio singing a song I've never heard. From the back seat of the car 2x4's (7 year old) boy pipes up, "This is Frank Sinatra, right?"

How many seven year olds do you know that can recognize Mr. Sinatra's crooning? I was so proud! I looked at him and said, "YEAH! You 'da MAN!"

Ok, so, the kid's cool, and I'm a little lame.

A Short Funny

The other day 2x4 and I were having a conversation with a friend/coworker. The subject came around somehow to my art work. This friend posed the following question of me:

"Have you ever hung your work in a gallery for sale or anything? I could use some cheap artwork."

*Pause*

"Wait, that didn't come out right."

LUNATIC!

You know how sometimes reality is more amusing than fiction? Let me share with you some of my reality this evening. It's another waitressing tale, and if you're tired of these, I'm sorry. But this one is just too good to keep to myself.

Towards the end of the evening tonight a guy came in alone and ordered a glass of wine and dinner. He looked normal enough. Yeah, well, so do lots of crazy people. Sadly, when they look normal you have no idea what's coming.

The guy was in the restaurant for MAYBE an hour. He talked my ear off every chance he got and even asked if I wanted to sit and join him (he offered to buy me a meal). HELLO! Maybe you didn't notice, usually the fact that I bring you your food and drink, and the outfit and the neck tie are dead give aways that I'M WORKING HERE.

Here's the story of Mr Crazy as told by none other than: Mr. Crazy.

Mr. Crazy travels ALL over the world. He watched the first plane hit the trade center. He was in England when all the hubub was taking place over liquid bombing materials. He was in Madrid 5 days after the subway bombings. When he travels for 'work' he goes to locations that require bodyguards to meet him and his traveling companions on the jet and escort them in bullet proof cars to their destinations. Next week he's going to China. China isn't bad unless you get lost because nobody speaks English.

He lives in a yacht in New York harbor and drives to Harlem to park his car in the morning where they think he's a school teacher so they only charge him $7 to park (he informed me that parking for a day in a garage in NYC normally costs $50). Anyhoo...Mr. Crazy then takes the C train (I think, maybe he said the A train, does it really matter) to work where he works in a big office building (yeah, he seriously said that he works in a big office building).

Mr. Crazy also has a large farm in Connecticut that is on over 700 acres. He has herds of dear in his yard. He has at least 500 'Posted' signs to keep hunters out and he employs a couple Vietnam Veteran Snipers to keep hunters from trespassing. His sons kill some of the dear. Some of the bucks his kids shoot have holes in their hind quartes deep enough for Mr. Crazy to stick his whole index finger into. (He held up his finger and said "This deep") Yup, he even told me how these holes arrive in buck butts, though he didn't mention why he's sticking his finger into them. They're from other big buck's antlers. (Little nature lesson from Mr. Insane that I'm sharing with you all).

Mr Crazy has lots of really great cars at his Connecticut 'farm'. He has several Shelby Cobras and a Ferrari. Most original Cobras are gone because they're so fast that people died in them (according to Mr. Crazy of course). Well, Mr Insanity drives his so fast that the local police have been trying to catch him for a long time. They've even resorted to using helicopters but Mr. Crazy paid a lawyer $10,000 to keep the local coppers off his back. (When he used the SHOCKING number of $10,000 he even raised his eyebrows several times in quick succession to indicate that I should show enthusiasm. I didn't).

Mr Lunatic also has a daughter who attends NYU. He has her and her friend all set up with armed body guards 'cause she's a rich American girl and sickos kidnap rich American children.

Mr. Crazy is considering buying a farm up in my neck of the woods but it has to be at least 1,000 acres so that he can have a landing strip.

Mr. Freakin' Out of His Mind vacations with the fam in the Bahamas where the water is dangerous. The coral reefs protrude from the water and the HUGE Sting Rays (you know, like the one that killed the crocodile hunter) are all over. He pays a local guy $3,000 at the beginning of their week vacation to take him and his family around and make sure they're safe.

Crazy huh? I swear I'm not making any of this up. Not a bit of it. As a matter of fact I'm even leaving some out.

His bill came to $30.

My tip: $10. Not a bad tip if you're NORMAL and I don't have to endure the pain of listening to your PREPOSTEROUS stories about your wealth and feign interest with head nods and the occasional "Wow".

Rich guy my ass.

I have to admit he freaked me out a bit and I asked the bartender walk me to my car tonight. This guy was NUTS.

This is my reality. Fun huh?

#%^&*#!!!!

My heart is heavy tonight.

I work with this busser, she's fifteen years old, about four foot tall, and like greased lightning when she works. I've never seen a kid her age work harder. I like her a lot, she's a good kid.

I guess I'll just call her Sydney.

Sydney got her boyfriend a job as a busser. He sucks. He's slow, he's incompetent, and he's inept. He uses his shift to follow Sydney around. He's sixteen years of age. He has rubbed me the wrong way from day one. You know that woman's intuition thing? Yeah, well, my intuition meter says the guy's bad news. Up until tonight it hasn't mattered. What am I supposed to do? Tell Sydney her boyfriend emits a bad vibe and I'm pretty tuned in to these things? Yeah, that'd go over big. I have a tendency to get involved in shit that's none of my business so I tried to stay out of it.

Until tonight. F*^K!

Sydney's beau, I'll call him DW (I know it's harsh but DW as in 'Dick Wad'. Sometimes I get a little juvenile, so sue me!) freaked out on her tonight because she was helping the MALE dishwasher to WASH DISHES. Yup, he accused her of flirting because she had some extra time and was helping the dishwasher dig himself out of dirty dish hell. Then he acted as if he wasn't going to give her a ride home (his mom was supposed to pick them both up).

So, I stepped in. I told Sydney I'd give her a ride home, and I did just that.

Through speaking with Sydney this evening I now know that she has an awful relationship with her mom, her parents have told her that they are staying together only until she's in college, then divorcing, she used to be a cutter, she sees a therapist and doesn't feel like it helps anything, she avoids sleeping because she has nightmares every night, she did two grades of high school in one year so that she and DW would be in the same grade, she has money saved up so that she can get a nose-job, she has a couple of friends in a local psychiatric hospital, she lives in a really nice house, and she lost her virginity to DW less than a week ago.

Ugh.

CLEARLY the girl's got self esteem issues (so does DW I'd say). She's like a battered woman in the making. Her boyfriend is like a wife beater in the making. I know as a reader this probably sounds extreme, but these things start somewhere, and if you could have witnessed what did tonight you'd get it. The kitchen staff had witnessed what happened and were trying to convince her that her boyfriend was out of line as she was saying things like, "yeah, but it's partly my fault because...."

I tried to offer advice. I tried to be non-judgmental. I tried to offer some of the wisdom I've acquired over the years (yeah, I've got some!). I tried to be a new support system, something untherapist and unparent like.

I feel like I said all the wrong things.

I told her that she is beautiful even though she doesn't see it. I told her that she can come to me to talk any time. I told her that a romantic relationship shouldn't involve ridiculous unsubstantiated accusations from the person you love. I told her that feeling love at fifteen is no different or less powerful than feeling love at 30. I told her that I was in no way telling her what to do, just offering a new perspective. I said a bunch of other things but they all seem so lame and irrelevant that I can't even recall them.

She thanked me profusely before getting out of my car. She told me I gave her a lot to think about, and I told her she could come to me any time.

Ugh.

Now I'm emotionally attached. I'm invested. I care and I'm involved. I want to help, but I'm pretty sure that this is out of my jurisdiction as I have no idea what to offer a fifteen year old girl that I hardly know. I'm really not mentor material.

What the hell do I do now?

I'm going to be an awful therapist.

Yeah, my heart is really heavy tonight.

Waitress Rant

It's no surprise to my readers that I loathe my job. I've certainly beaten a dead horse on the subject, but I have to rant this evening. Etiquette and common sense seem to be MIA in a wide array of people, and I need to write an open list of faux pas to potential diners out there. If you're offended, too bad. I'm not sorry.

1. If you take your kid out to a restaurant, and he/she needs a portable video game to keep him/her occupied or behaved, you're a lousy parent. It's not only rude, but pathetic. A family dinner should not need to involve electronics. Try interacting with your kids, like in the olden days.

2. Ok, my job is to bring you food and beverages. When I come to your table and say "Good evening folks!" Don't look at me in silence like I have three heads. This is formality. I'm being polite, and, just to give you a heads-up; the next question will be, "Can I start you off with some drinks this evening?" So, think ahead. I'm pretty damn demanding what with all the questions and everything.

3. If you're sitting near a baby who happens to be vocal, suck it up. Babies make noise. I'm not talking gut wrenching screaching (that is NOT okay, take the baby OUTSIDE) I'm talking loud giggles and the occasional happy squeel. Babies are allowed out in public too. Enjoy them, stop whining because they're too loud. Dominoes delivers pizza every night, stay home and enjoy the silence if babies bother you, loser.

4. When I pose the question, "How are you folks tonight?" an acknowledgment would be DANDY. A response of silence fills me with disdain. Remember, I have the power to spit in your food. Just be nice, that's all I ask.

5. If you are the last party in the restaurant, I can't go home until you leave. AND, when you leave, my work is not done. I still have to pick up after you and put up all of the chairs in the dining room. If you're going to linger, that's fine, just tip accordingly. My time is valuable, just like yours. I have a family, and a life, and bills to pay. Waiting for you is what I have to do, but keep in mind that I work for tips. I work my ASS off for tips. By the end of the night, I'm beat. Sticking around an extra hour for one table and 8 bucks is simply aggravating. I'll remember you. And I still have the power to spit in your food.

6. When you walk in the front door, and the hostess is not there, she's seating someone and she'll be back shortly. Approaching the first person you see, (like a waitress with a tray full of food over her shoulder who is walking rather quickly like she has somewhere TO BE) and telling her that you have two for dinner isn't going to get you anything, she's busy, and that's not her job. Patience people, patience.

7. It's okay to leave more than twenty percent when your bill comes to $15 and you occupied a table for two hours. I'm just sayin, don't feel obligated to keep the tip below three dollars, it's okay to bump it up to a 5 spot, I won't get upset.

8. See this big thing called a tray that I'm carrying? It's covered with hot food and heavy plates. Please keep your child from running between my legs. I'm klutzy enough contending with my own two feet, your kid's feet aren't helping me any, do you really want your kid to be burned with a cracked skull? No? I didn't think so.

9. Verbal tips don't pay my bills. I appreciate you telling me that the service was excellent and the food very good, and that you'll be back, really, I do. But when I open the book and see that you've left me 10 percent, I can't go to my landlord and say, "Here's half the rent, but table 93 said that I gave them excellent service!"

10. I'm human. I make mistakes, and I forget things. When I do, I will apologize profusely, and I will do my best to make it right. When I screw up and it effects my tip, I get that. Fair enough. But, don't be a jerk. That won't get either of us anywhere. Like you've never screwed up? PLLLLLease!

For the record, I have never spit in food. It never occurs to me to do so, I guess I'm just too nice. I will say that I have waited on a variety of people who not only deserve it, but are begging for a nice loogy in their dinner, however, I haven't gone that far. Yet. Just remember that when you dine out, the person bringing your food is a human being, not your slave. He or she may be on the verge of a breakdown and they are in control of items which are entering your digestive track. Be nice. Is that so hard, really? It goes a long way. Almost as far as a good tip.

FYI, I'm too tired and lazy to spell check this evening, so I apologize for any gramatical errors that you may unearth.

Well then, I feel a little better. Too bad I have to do it all over again tomorrow. Four more months, I graduate in four. more. months....