tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67337583264045995852024-02-06T21:10:00.947-08:00Lost in the Woods: The Trials and Tribulations of a Nomadic Twentysomething-Year-OldA narrative of a twentysomething-year-old who is always looking for the next adventure. From the Blue Ridge Mountains to Midwestern islands, trips abroad, a quick layover in the Windy City and an extended stay in the Bible Belt -- all in search of how to become a travel writer or the next David Sedaris (which ever comes first!). Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-83468536330096228982015-10-08T11:44:00.000-07:002015-10-08T11:44:22.529-07:00They're Going to Send You to Milledgeville"They're going to send you to Milledgeville." This phrase used to be synonymous with "you're crazy" or "they're going to send you to the loony bin!" Milledgeville, GA is home to the Central State Hospital, which was once the <a href="http://www.atlantamagazine.com/great-reads/asylum-inside-central-state-hospital-worlds-largest-mental-institution/" target="_blank">world's largest mental institution</a>. In the mid-1800s it was officially called the State Lunatic, Idiot, and Epileptic Asylum. The hospital closed in 2010 although I believe a few wings are still up and running. Many southeastern residents today can still remember when saying, "You're going to Milledgeville," meant you were so far off your rocker that it was time you were locked up. This past week I felt like I had truly "been sent to Milledgeville."<br />
<br />
A month ago I hosted two friends at my apartment and bought a queen-sized mattress from Walmart to accommodate them. Sometime after 2 a.m. and many bottles of wine we learned that I had mistakenly purchased an air mattress without a pump. Obviously the purchase was a bust and I went back to Walmart a few days later to return the air mattress. The girl at Customer Service told me that I could not return the mattress since the box had been opened. "But it wasn't used," I said, "I basically opened it, realized the mistake, and put it back in."<br />
<br />
"All I can offer you is an exchange," the clerk responded.<br />
<br />
"For another air mattress?"<br />
<br />
"For this same mattress or one at a higher price."<br />
<br />
I let this information sink in. "So I can just return this air mattress for the exact <i>same</i> air mattress, but in an unopened box?"<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
"Or one of a higher price?"<br />
<br />
"From the same maker."<br />
<br />
"So still leaving me with the problem of not having an air pump."<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
"Even though I don't want this air mattress or any other air mattress at all?"<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
I did not understand the point of that policy so I took the mattress back with me. Mildly upset, I called my boyfriend who told me to simply return the opened box for an unopened one. Then I could return the unopened air mattress. I realized this was cheating the system, but then I also remembered that Walmart sucks and what do I care if I pull a fast one on a company that used to lock its employees inside so they couldn't leave during Inventory.<br />
<br />
This is also a time to mention that, although I have grown up in many small towns, I consider myself a city person. I thrive off the hustle and bustle and anonymity that living in a large city affords you. I love walking down a sidewalk and cramming into a subway car with hundreds of other people - way too many to constantly make eye contact with and greet. Returning or exchanging an item makes me feel uncomfortable because I feel like I'm doing something wrong, but in a city I don't care so much because I know the probability of seeing those clerks again, or being recognized by them, is very low. Who cares if I've decided the dress I bought was too small! I can exchange it at one Target and then shop at another one for the next month until I've decided my embarrassment has finally subsided.<br />
<br />
Because Milledgeville is a small, rural town, I waited a week to make my exchange. I didn't want the same clerk to see me and possibly figure out what I was doing. So, a few weeks ago I went into Walmart and exchanged the opened air mattress for an unopened one. I wore a baseball hat because it somehow made me feel more anonymous. Thankfully, there was a new woman behind the counter. She told me to go get the new air mattress off the shelf and didn't even question why I was swapping out the exact same items. She stapled my exchange receipt to my old receipt and sent me on my way. I put the new mattress in my car and left it there for another week, again waiting until a time when <i>both</i> clerks would hopefully not be there. I left the store feeling devious, accomplished, and a tad insane.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, after waiting another full week, I finally set out to return the offending air mattress. By now you may be thinking, "Why don't you just keep the air mattress? Or give/sell it to someone? This seems like a lot of work for $50." Well you would be correct. This <i>is</i> a lot of effort to go through just to get $50 back, but I am a poor grad student and a normal grocery bill for three weeks worth of produce is usually around $50. Also, I'm stubborn and decided that I did not want the air mattress and I'll be damned if I will not get Walmart to take it back!<br />
<br />
Thinking Walmart would not return an item I had already exchanged I ripped the original receipt from the exchange receipt. Clerk #2 had stapled both receipts together in the middle of the paper and I assumed this was some sort of Walmart code to warn Customer Service of people trying to dupe the system, like me. So like the true crazy person I have become I set about disguising the original receipt to make it look like it had gone through Receipt Hell: I tore the top half, crumpled the paper in my hand multiple times, and then I actually licked the edge. That's right! I licked the receipt as a way to detract from the tiny staple holes that I took to be some sort of covert Walmart code.<br />
<br />
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<br />
With my air mattress and mangled receipt in hand, I strode confidently into Walmart. I waited in line at Customer Service as some woman returned two opened boxes of Family Sized Cheerios. Thankfully there was yet another new clerk behind the service desk so I didn't feel the need to don my baseball cap, which was squished into my purse. Cheerios Lady received a full cash refund and left. I stepped up to the counter, placed the air mattress in front of me and handed over the receipt. Clerk #3 scanned the receipt multiple times before looking up at me and saying, "It says you've already returned this."<br />
<br />
My heart dropped. I had heard once that some people buy things from a store, return it, then go back to the store and grab the exact item they returned from the shelf and try to return it all over again - thus making money off an illegitimate return. My palms immediately began to sweat as I realized I looked like one of these people. Instead of confessing to having exchanged the original opened item, I let my blond hair shine brightly and feigned pure ignorance.<br />
<br />
"Have you already been to Customer Service before?" the woman asked.<br />
<br />
"I don't think so?" I said, wondering how weird it would look if I simply grabbed the air mattress and ran, "Not at this Walmart at least."<br />
<br />
"I'm going to have to call a manager. Please step to the side."<br />
<br />
I moved everything down the counter and casually pretended to text someone. Inside my head I was freaking out: <i>It looks like I stole this! It looks like I took this off the shelf and am trying to make money off of it. Oh my god I am going to get arrested at Walmart. </i>I played images in my head of being escorted to the holding room that stores reserve for shoplifters. <i>Will they cuff me?</i>,<i> </i>I thought, <i>Or will they just keep the air mattress and insist that I must have taken it off the shelf? </i>I looked around the check-out lanes that faced Customer Service. In such a rural area, I felt there was an 80% chance that someone I knew was in the store right now, ready to witness my shame as I was carted out of the building. The thought of being banned from Walmart also worried me as that would severely limit my shopping options for the next two years of my graduate school career (Milledgeville has a Kroger, two Piggly Wigglys, and a Food Depot - where will I get anything other than food if I'm banned from Walmart?!).<br />
<br />
Finally the manager appeared. I thanked my lucky stars that she wasn't either of the first two clerks I had dealt with. If she had been, I was sure I would find myself trudging the long Walk of Shame out of the building with two Walmart security people holding my arms. Clerk #3 explained the situation. The manager and I went through the exact same exchange where I decided to continue lying instead of simply admitting that I had exchanged the opened air mattress for the unopened one and now I was trying to return the unopened one, thus finding a loophole in their system. I made my eyes wider, hoping the Dumb Blonde card would work and they'd take pity on this seemingly doe-eyed, clueless girl.<br />
<br />
The manager turned and walked to a framed picture that I hadn't noticed before. The paper inside the frame read: AIR MATTRESS RETURN POLICY.<br />
<br />
<i>Motherfucker.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The manager turned back to me and handed over my receipt. "We can't return this," she said, "we have a 15 day return policy on air mattresses and it's been too long." I wanted to say, "But I actually haven't had <i>this</i> air mattress for 15 days! I exchanged it and this specific one has only been in my car for a week!" But obviously I couldn't. Defeated, I took my mangled receipt and air mattress and walked back to my car.<br />
<br />
The mattress is currently still in my car where it will remain until I decide what to do next. Why don't I just suck it up and keep the damn thing? Or sell it or give it away? Or, better yet, buy a bloody air pump? Because clearly there is something in the water in Milledgeville. The aura from the Central State Hospital has spread throughout the town, making all those that move here evolve into crazy, irrational people. Or maybe I was always this loony and thus destined for Milledgeville. Either way, it's clear I need to get out of town soon and I guess my air mattress will have to come with me.Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-85589862437181465622015-07-27T19:03:00.004-07:002015-07-27T19:03:53.459-07:00James the RacistSince my last post, I have left Colorado and come back to Georgia a month earlier than expected. I'm sure it's apparent from my last few entries about the Elk Inn, but the summer seasonal job proved to be more infuriating than relaxing. I finally had to make the decision that graduate school is stressful enough and I just wanted a <i>real</i> vacation. I also realized that I wasn't doing one of the most important things I should have been doing this summer: writing.<br />
<br />
I am not one to quit jobs easily - especially without a valid excuse like "I'm moving to Georgia for grad school" or "I was offered a great opportunity in Chicago. See ya!" I typed up my resignation letter for the Elk Inn, but kept it in my purse for about four days. I went back and forth between <i>I should do this, I shouldn't do this, It's what's best for me, It's shitty to break your contract</i>. This internal flip-flopping came to an abrupt halt as soon as I met the Elk Inn's newest front desk employee: James.<br />
<br />
The first time I worked with James (a little over two weeks before my final day at work) I helped him with a reservation he was trying to make over the phone. He was sitting in the office to the side of the front desk where we have our lockers, storage, and it's basically where the front desk staff can take a moment to sit down outside of the view of guests. James waved me over to him and put down the phone receiver. "I'm trying to make this reservation and the computer won't let me," he said. I had already caught onto the fact that James was not the brightest crayon in the crayon box so I took the mouse and tried to click "reserve" on the computer screen. When that didn't work I looked at the screen and saw that he was trying to book nine people into one room.<br />
<br />
"James," I said, "you've told the computer that you want to put nine people into one room."<br />
<br />
"Yeah. So?"<br />
<br />
"None of our rooms can do that. That's why the computer won't let you do anything."<br />
<br />
"Well they're Asian. They can compact." He smirked at me, proud of his joke.<br />
<br />
Had James said this to any of my other coworkers they possibly would have laughed or just rolled their eyes. However, I was a flaming-uber-politically-correct-liberal who was finally getting tired of hearing off-coloured jokes that summer.<br />
<br />
"That is racist as shit," I snapped at him before shoving him out of the way and changing the reservation on the computer screen. Once the computer realized that it needed two rooms for about four people each it pulled up a slew of options. James picked up the phone and started talking and I stared in horror as I realized that the phone had never been put on hold. The call lasted only a few seconds before whoever was on the other end practically hung-up on James. He looked blankly at the receiver for a moment, as if he couldn't fathom why they suddenly hung-up. Then he turned to me and put on a stereotypical Asian accent, "She say, 'ohhh we so sowy we no stay der.'"<br />
<br />
That night, a group of us from the hotel went out to a local bar and James joined us. He had been living in the hotel for a few days until his drug test cleared and this was to be his first night in the dormitory with everyone. Originally from Alaska, James had spent the past seven years on the coast of Florida. He had already experienced some altitude sickness because he didn't know that breathing at 7,000+ ft is different than 7 ft and I wondered if he knew that drinking was different, too. Apparently not because he downed 5-6 pints of Guinness in about two hours and the night ended with me finding him sprawled out on his bare mattress in a puddle of his own vomit. I told him to stand up so that he wouldn't choke to death. He stumbled over to me and pointed at my chest. "Just because I paid your bar tab," he slurred, "doesn't mean you have to act like you care."<br />
<br />
It was pretty obvious that James and I were not going to get along. We had worked one shift together and in that short eight hour period he had not only shocked me with incredibly ignorant remarks, but he had also told me that I looked "much older" than 26, and regaled me with the lengthy list of why he hates Chicago (even though he's never been there). With a little over two weeks left at the Elk Inn I was finally no longer flip-flopping between <i>should I stay or should I go? </i>Now it was: <i>I have to leave before I physically harm this person.</i><br />
<br />
James and I worked another eight hour shift together the day after I picked him out of his own vomit. I talked to him only when it was necessary for work and mostly just stood at the front desk, staring out the lobby windows and thinking about what I was going to do during my upcoming trip to Chicago, my trip back across the country, and a mental list of what needed to be done before classes started back up. At one point I heard James talking to one of the other front desk agents, Boris, a guy from Turkey:<br />
<br />
"Where are you from?" Boris asked.<br />
<br />
"Guess."<br />
<br />
"All Americans sound the same to me. I cannot guess."<br />
<br />
"Ah-ha, well that's where you're wrong," I could hear James making the same smirk he did when he joked about fitting nine people into one room. "I'm not an American. I'm a foreigner just like you." I turned around slowly. James and Boris were in the side office, sitting in chairs that faced one another. James had his back to me and Boris looked at me questioningly. I tried to give my best "WTF" face and made an A with my arms.<br />
<br />
"Alabama?" Boris asked.<br />
<br />
"Alaska," James responded.<br />
<br />
Boris looked from James to me. "That is in America, no?"<br />
<br />
"Not if you ask anyone from Alaska, it's not."<br />
<br />
I'm going to take a moment here because I know that Alaska was officially made a state in 1959 and there are still people alive who were born/raised in Alaska before it was an official state and clearly these people may share this opinion. Also, after repeating this story to several people, I have learned that there are those who wish Alaska was a territory and not a state and therefore prefer to identify as Alaskan before saying they are American. As someone with their own confused view of citizenship, I can totally understand that view. However, James is 22 years old (i.e. born 34 years after Alaska was made an official U.S. state) and was completely serious when explaining to Boris that they were equal in their alien status. Boris asked James if he needed a green card, too, but mercifully the phone rang and I answered it so I couldn't listen to the response.<br />
<br />
That night, James and I had about three hours to ourselves. I continued to not engage him in conversation because I figured it would lead to nowhere good. James talked at me anytime there were no guests at the front desk. He told me about working for a Papa John's in Florida and how he came to Colorado for a change in scenery, but was thinking of going back to Alaska to work for a coal/gold mine. Somehow that led to him talking about his disdain for school and how he flunked out of his community college because he was "too smart" for the classes.<br />
<br />
"I had this one teacher," he said, "that I liked to argue with a lot. She was a U.S. History teacher and she was Black, go figure."<br />
<br />
For the first time in nearly an hour I spoke to him. "Why go figure?" He looked at me like he didn't understand my confusion. "Why," I clarified, "did you say 'she was Black, go figure'?"<br />
<br />
"Umm...because she was teaching a U.S. History course?" He spoke slowly. Like he was talking to a child.<br />
<br />
Even knowing that his mind leans towards racist stereotypes, I couldn't fathom where he was going with this. "Was she from Zimbabwe?" I asked, thinking maybe he found it odd that a non-native American was teaching U.S. History.<br />
<br />
"No," he said, "you know how those people are when they talk about U.S. history. All they want to talk about is Civil Rights and the Civil War and, I mean, that stuff just isn't applicable anymore."<br />
<br />
I stared at him for what felt like ages. That "stuff" isn't pertinent anymore? "Those people"?! I remembered what he had looked like, less than 24 hours earlier, sprawled out on his mattress covered in puke. For a split second I regretted making him stand up.<br />
<br />
I took a deep breath. "That <i>stuff</i> isn't applicable? Have you been watching the news lately? It's not a bunch of unarmed white guys being shot by cops. And what about what happened yesterday? It wasn't a bunch of white people at a church who were gunned down --" (This was the day after the Charleston shooting.)<br />
<br />
"Oh please," James cut me off and rolled his eyes. "That has <i>nothing </i>to do with race. Racism doesn't exist in this country! It's all about economics."<br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure my rage made me blackout at this moment because I can't remember what James said except that there is no racism in the U.S. and the real problem is that African Americans do not have father figures to look up to. Also, Black people are "catered to" too much in society and giving "too many free passes." As James started to tell me how the string of police shootings could have easily happened to white men, too, I stopped him. "We are done talking about this," I told him. "We are standing at the front desk, there are guests in the lobby, and this is wildly inappropriate to be talking about at work."<br />
<br />
"Why? It's just economics."<br />
<br />
"No," I said, trying to keep my voice and anger down, "it's definitely not and it's clear that you and I are on two totally different political spectrums. For the sake of our working relationship we are done talking about anything other than work."<br />
<br />
"Geez. Why are you getting so worked up?"<br />
<br />
I told him he needed to stop talking and the rest of the night was spent with him trying to talk at me about "economics" again. My face was burning and my hands were shaking. I couldn't tell who I was angrier at: him or me. There I was a self proclaimed down-with-the-religious-right-I-will-kick-intolerance-in-the-ass liberal and yet I was letting this guy say the most heinous things without really holding him accountable. Sure, I was making my anger known and called him out on what he was saying, but I still wasn't doing it with the adamant vigor and righteous telling off that I knew he deserved.<br />
<br />
The truth is I had never come face-to-face with this kind of blatant racism before. In fact, a lot of what was said around me in Colorado was new: "Indian people smell like curry," "I don't like Muslims," "stupid foreigners," and those were being said by people that I genuinely liked and considered friends. I grew up in the Bible Belt in a state that was one of the last few holdouts for marriage equality; a state that up until 2014 <i>still </i>had a school with a segregated prom; and a state that only dropped the Confederate flag image from its official state flag in 2003 (the more infamous one at least, not the official <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flags_of_the_Confederate_States_of_America" target="_blank">Confederate National Flag</a> -- sneaky sneaky state of Georgia). Yes, I grew up in state that was certainly more red than blue and yet somehow I had only ever surrounded myself with fellow like-minded liberal people. I had missed having to confront racism head-on (can we say, "white privilege?"). And now here I was standing behind the front desk of a Colorado hotel with someone who was so ignorant as to say "those people" and all I could respond was basically "shut up." In my head I berated myself for being so cowardly and letting myself down. <br />
<br />
A few nights later, James and I had our last significant interaction in which all I could say was, again, "shut up." My roommate and I went out to a local bar because we knew some Irish guys from our hotel would be there. My roommate hit it off with one of the men and I found out the other one used to write for Lonely Planet so I fan-girled all over him while my roomie and Irish #1 left the bar. Irish #2 and I continued to talk about what it takes to be a travel writer when James stumbled over. As usual, James was wasted and he swayed a little as he stood next to the table. I introduced the Irish man as one of our hotel guests hoping that that little bit of information would force James to reign in the asshole-ness. No such luck. James began telling Irish #2 that Ireland had "sold out" for joining the European Union and had "lost their Irishness." Irish #2 was being polite and sipping his beer while James got more and more passionate. The customer service person in me kicked in and I tried to distract James from the poor guest by asking him what he thought about Greece possibly having to leave the E.U. His response was fairly incoherent and his eyelids drooped a little. I heard the word "citizenship" and decided I wanted to poke the bear a bit. I asked, "I heard you telling Boris the other day that you're not an American citizen."<br />
<br />
"No I'm not," he spat with each syllable.<br />
<br />
"So what about your passport?" This was the guy who originally came to the Elk Inn and told everyone he had never been out of the country and then later told a guest that he had traveled extensively through China, mainland Europe, and Cuba.<br />
<br />
"I burned it," he said.<br />
<br />
"You burned it?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah! I burned that fucker right up. I don't need no government telling me what the fuck to do."<br />
<br />
I was sitting sideways on a bar stool using the restaurant's large window as a back. James was standing directly in front of me, swaying so that every now and then he bumped my knees. Irish #2 stood behind James, slowly sipping his beer and staring at this drunken fool with a mix of awe and horror.<br />
<br />
"How are you going to travel?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"I'm going to hop on a boat. I'm going to be a stowaway."<br />
<br />
"That's a great idea post-9/11."<br />
<br />
"You know what?" James raised his finger like he was about to make a significant point. "From the moment I met you I knew I was not going to like you."<br />
<br />
"Well that feeling was mutual."<br />
<br />
"And you know why?"<br />
<br />
"Why?"<br />
<br />
He swayed and I momentarily worried he was going to vomit on me. "Because from the moment I met you I knew you were one of those fucked up liberal people."<br />
<br />
I crossed my arms, "I think it's pretty obvious that you and I are very different."<br />
<br />
"You're one of those fucked up liberal people with those fucked up views about feminism and shit and gay rights. That shit is sick, man. It's fucking sick and the government should have no say in trying to force that fucked up shit on the states." He lifted both his hands up and pumped them at me. "If we weren't in public," he said, "I would hit you."<br />
<br />
In one swift move Irish #2 downed the rest of his beer, slammed it on the table, and reached his hand out to me. "Shall I walk you back to the hotel?" he asked. I agreed and jumped from the bar stool, knocking James out of the way. Irish #2 and I left without a word to James.<br />
<br />
As we walked back, Irish #2 warned me of the dangers women face for being too polite. I agreed and nodded, but what I wanted to do was stop in the middle of the sidewalk, throw my hands into the air, and exclaim, "I get it! I am a spineless coward! I have let this asshole say the worst things possible and I haven't done shit except to blatantly tell him I don't like him and watch him flounder at work. I get that I should be doing more, but being tight-lipped and polite has been so ingrained in me that I just don't know how to."<br />
<br />
There was also a part of me that was no longer angry at James. I felt sorry for him. I know this will sound like I'm just saying it out of spite, but this guy was not bright, he was not attractive, and he was just an outright asshole to everyone (I am not alone in my feelings towards this guy). He is twenty-two years old, seemingly friend-less, and has the conservative, twisted, Fox-like views of Donald Trump. Every night he went to a bar by himself and got so wasted that he had to hold himself up against a wall in order to walk. I hated him and I not-so-secretly wanted a mamma elk to trample him, but I felt bad for him. To be so young and full of such ignorant hate -- that is a pretty sad life to lead.<br />
<br />
I am still ashamed that I never outright berated or yelled at or sought any sort of justice from James for the things he said. My only real act of defiance was going to the HR Manager and the General Manager of the hotel and telling them everything James had done/said at the front desk (including telling a little old man asking for directions to a church that the Catholic religion was just a "doughnut factory") and his threat to hit me. This, unsurprisingly, did nothing except to make the HR Manager confess that he never liked James and would fire him if it were up to him. Unfortunately, the decision to fire a front desk agent rested in the hands of my supervisor, a man who would let an employee beat up a guest before ever succumbing to a face-to-face confrontation.<br />
<br />
I feel like I should end this post on some sort of positive note like "And now I will never let a racist go unpunished!" or "This taught me to be more vocal about what I believe to be right and wrong." While those two things are true, my brief time with James the Racist has actually made me realize that changing what's wrong with our society will take more than just telling someone to "shut up." I know in school we're always taught "every little bit helps," but I honestly never took that to heart when it came to anything major. To me, changing anything really big meant there were protests and marches and banners and yelling and teargas. In fact, when I was little, it was my dream to be teargassed because I believed that that was the only real sign of having tried to make a difference. Instead, nearly three decades into my life, I now understand that our teachers were right: every little bit helps. Sure, berating James and explaining to him why he's wrong and his views are racist will not solve what's broken in our society, but it has the possibility of maybe changing his mind (way, wayyyyyy down the road). And, if anything, it would also just make me feel really really good.Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-58809984166573631102015-05-21T17:24:00.002-07:002015-05-21T17:25:14.301-07:00Why the Banned Should Stay BannedFor those of you that have kept up with this blog over the past few years, you know that I have run into my fair share of crazy situations, especially when I have worked at hotels. Well last night I found myself in the midst of a situation that I feel may have topped all of my past crazy-hotel-stories -- it even tops <a href="http://rangergeorgia.blogspot.com/2012/07/its-gettin-hot-in-here.html" target="_blank">that time</a> a couple was having sex on the break-wall by my Mackinac hotel. <br />
<br />
For the past two days, an ex-employee of the Elk Inn has been staying at the hotel. Before I go any further, let me tell you about this individual. His nickname is RT*. If I were to list his real name and you were to type it into Google, you would find an arrest record in which RT was banned from Colorado State University's campus for sending his ex-girlfriend over 200 text messages in one day. Here's a little snippet from the article: "<i>according to police, [RT] said he was planning to take money out of the
bank, buy a gun at a pawnshop, and then kill her if she didn't call him
back. 'Either you call me right now or I'm ending your life,' reads one
message included in police arrest report. 'If you're at the library I'm
going to find you, what do you think is gonna happen, someone there
gonna protect you.'</i>"<br />
<br />
When I first heard RT was coming to stay at the hotel, all of the other front desk agents groaned and rolled their eyes. They showed me the article about his arrest, recounted stories of his quick temper and blatant sexism towards women, how he threatened "to put a woman in a body bag" while working at the Elk Inn's front desk, and how he was fired shortly after that. RT has also sent my roommate, who he has never met before and randomly found on Facebook, text messages asking to see naked photos and continually asks if she'd like to come to his cabin. After being fired from the Elk Inn, RT was hired by another hotel, attempted to woo a female guest and when she declined his advances he "kicked down her door" (this was relayed to me by someone who worked at that hotel with him at the time). After kicking down this woman's door, RT was kicked out of <i>that</i> hotel, came to the bar at the Elk Inn, started a fight with someone, and was thrown out of the Elk Inn and told he was no longer allowed on the property.<br />
<br />
<i>Why then</i>, you may ask, <i>was he staying at the Elk Inn the past two nights?</i> Because the Rooms Manager of the hotel, Hans, thinks RT is awesome and made a "secret" reservation for him.<br />
<br />
And thus brings us to what happened yesterday:<br />
<br />
After already staying in the hotel/visiting Estes for an unknown reason the day before, Hans gave RT another super discounted room last night. Around 4pm, RT checked-in with a very petite girl, who Apple and I could immediately tell was drugged out. We had RT's credit card information for incidentals from the previous stay (he paid cash on the room) and he had the obviously twitching girl put her debit card down to pay for this new room. They then went off and weren't seen again except for a brief moment when I walked by them during my break.<br />
<br />
Around 9:30pm a guest on the fourth floor called the front desk asking for new batteries for his TV remote. I called our maintenance department and asked Doug to bring up some batteries. About ten minutes later Doug radioed the front desk and said that the Manager on Duty, Cookie, needed to come to the fourth floor right away. Before he even made it up there, Doug told Cookie that they needed to call 911. Apple and I stayed at the front desk wondering what was happening. We hypothesized that the man who wanted the new batteries was either throwing a fit or he was having a heart attack. A few minutes later, Doug came down to the front desk and asked who was in Room 410. I pulled up the record in the computer: RT.<br />
<br />
"RT?!" Doug said (he was the one who worked with RT when he kicked down the door), "what the fuck is he doing here?"<br />
<br />
"Hans let him in," Apple said.<br />
<br />
"He's not allowed in this hotel," Doug said. Elk Inn's bartender was walking through the lobby and asked what the commotion was about. "RT is in the hotel and he and his friend our tripping on acid and just beat the shit out of each other," Doug explained. The bartender also exclaimed his disgust and shock that RT was in the hotel. Apple told him that Hans had been letting RT stay at the hotel for a super discounted rate.<br />
<br />
"So what's going on?" the bartender asked.<br />
<br />
"They've destroyed that room," Doug said, "there's blood everywhere, there's a hole in the wall, the other guy's face is all bashed in."<br />
<br />
"Where's RT?"<br />
<br />
"He ran."<br />
<br />
"Probably because he knows he's going to get arrested," Apple chimed in.<br />
<br />
Doug said Cookie had already called the cops. He and the bartender went back up to the fourth floor to see what they should do before the cops arrived.<br />
<br />
Apple and I knew that this was not only Hans's fault for letting RT into the hotel, but we also knew that Hans was currently living in the hotel because he recently sold his house and doesn't have a new one yet. Apple texted Hans to let him know what was going on. I answered the desk phone and found a very annoyed Room 408 saying that someone was banging on their door, trying to get inside. I told him that there was a fight in Rm 410, we were aware of the situation, and that the cops were on the way. As soon as I hung up the phone, three cops strolled into the lobby. I showed them how to get to the fourth floor and they went separate directions to try to head off anyone who may try to flee the scene.<br />
<br />
Radio-less, Apple and I stood at the front desk and waited for some news. An ambulance arrived and I told the EMTs how to get to the fourth floor. Following the protocol of the Front Desk Test Apple and I recently had to take, we decided to call the General Manager and let him know what was going on. While Apple called him, I took another front desk call, this time from Room 419. The woman sounded panicked and asked if the people that were causing the disturbance were going to stay in the hotel. She said that she and her husband had a baby with them and were worried about their safety. I told them that I was fairly sure that the people in 410 were all going to be escorted off the property, but that I would call them back once I knew for sure. No sooner had I hung up the phone than it rang again and this time it was one of the servers from our restaurant. She was in the employee housing behind the hotel and said that RT was there and was trying to hide in one of the rooms. "He's covered in blood," she said. Apple called Cookie and told him to send the cops to our dorms ASAP.<br />
<br />
Guests continued to come to the front desk and ask if everything was okay. One couple said that there was blood on the outside of 410's door and said they hoped everyone was well. "They sort of brought this on themselves," Apple said. <br />
<br />
By 10:30pm, RT's "friend" had been loaded into an ambulance and the twitchy girl had been sent to the police station to detox. Apple walked one of the officers back up to the room so that he could take photos of the damage. While she was gone, I watched another officer walk RT to the front of the building and sit him down on a bench right outside our automatic doors. I tried to see he if he was handcuffed, but couldn't tell. Doug came back to the front desk and said that RT was getting off with a warning. The cops were making him wait outside for a friend to pick him up.<br />
<br />
Let's just take a moment to point out that RT, although a psychotic, messed-up individual with an arrest record, is an attractive white man. He drops acid, beats a guy with a hotel lamp (yes - he did not just hit his "friend" with his fists, but actually took a lamp to the guy's face), destroys a hotel room, trespasses on private property (he's not allowed in the employee housing), and walks off with just a warning. Do you think a Black or Hispanic man would have walked off sans handcuffs? Doubtful. <br />
<br />
Also, Hans never responded to Apple's text message. Cookie called Hans from the fourth floor before the cops arrived and Hans said, "I'm not dealing with this." Hans, the only person out of 20+ employees to let an ex-felon/ex-fired employee - a man with a history of violent acts - back into the hotel, did not want to deal with the mess he had created...<br />
<br />
Right before 11pm, the Night Auditor arrived and we filled her in and everything that had happened. Cookie encouraged her and I, the only two people who had not seen 410's damage, to go up to the room to see what had happened.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
Maybe I should have worked for the hotel that inspired <i>The Shining</i>. Evil spirits and REDRUM aren't looking half bad right now. <br />
<br />
*Name is changed because this boy is psychotic. Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-83629858725362606082015-05-15T10:21:00.001-07:002015-05-21T18:30:50.154-07:00Where's Norman Bates When I Need Him?The Elk Inn is a drug-free workplace. Before I could start my first day of work I had to be tested and was told that I couldn't work until the results came back. Right before I arrived in Colorado, three housekeepers were let-go for testing positive for marijuana. Now, I get that companies do not want their employees showing up stoned to work, but I think testing positive for pot in a state where weed is legal is just ridiculous. First off, weed is different than alcohol in that you do not have to be actively high to test positive. You don't even need to have smoked in the past 24 hours! In order to test positive for marijuana on a drug test you have to have smoked sometime in the past week or two (depending on the type of test they administer). As someone who does not smoke (because every time I do I think I'm going to die -- yep, I'm one of <i>those people</i>), I think this is grossly unfair to the workers here because they are not breaking any laws by smoking and they are not necessarily smoking before coming into work. Maybe they have a joint before bed! What's the harm in that? Hell, weed is safer than alcohol and yet I could drink 3 bottles of wine today and be tested next week and nothing would happen. If I smoke one joint today, however, and am tested next week then I am out of a job.<br />
<br />
I get that this company is trying to maintain a professional workplace and that this is a corporate policy, but this is also Colorado. This is a <i>summer seasonal </i>workplace in Colorado. Pot is legal here. I pass a dispensary every time I drive up and down the mountain! This company needs to make some accommodations or else they are going to be hiring and firing staff every single week. (Also, pot isn't legal in Michigan and yet more than half of my Mackinac hotel's staff smoked daily. Did the management drug test everyone? No, because then they would have lost their entire restaurant staff.)<br />
<br />
So this little tirade brings me to yesterday: the Elk Inn is hosting a three-day Letter Carriers conference (yes -- postal workers) and had 100+ check-outs and 100+ check-ins...and four housekeepers...Needless to say, it was mass chaos. Most of the letter carriers arrived between 1 and 4pm. Everyone who has ever stayed at a hotel knows that your room will not technically be ready until check-in time, but more often than not it is ready earlier than that. However, the rooms at the Elk Inn were not finished until 5pm. <b>5 P.M. </b>Even I will admit that this is unacceptable. I get that there were only four housekeepers and I am not blaming them. Those poor people were completely overworked yesterday! However, had the drug test policy not been in place, the Elk Inn would have had 7 housekeepers, plus one manager helping out, and that would have doubled the speed.<br />
<br />
I got to work at 2:30pm and was met with a crowded lobby and grumpy guests. It was my second day on the job. Thankfully I am already familiar with the hotel's reservation system, but I am two-years out of practice so there is still a learning curve. For example, my Mackinac hotel preassigned every room. The Elk Inn does that for certain rooms, but not others ( I have no idea why). When a room would finally be marked as 'clean' I would try to put a guest in there, but the system would tell me it was reserved for someone else. Another new guy was working with me and not only was this his second day on the job as well, but it was his second day working for any hotel in general. My roommate, who we will call Apple, was also checking people in, but basically all the three of us could do was apologize to guests, get their cellphone number, and tell them we would call as soon as their room was ready.<br />
<br />
Now, these Letter Carriers were here for a conference. The conference starts today, but there was a little reception for everyone who checked in yesterday. We had a conference room full of goodies and a hotel room reserved for everyone to relax in, leave their stuff, and eat and drink. I understood that everyone checking in was unhappy not to have a room ready, but it also wasn't like they had no where to go. There were also certain reservations that were being held under one name and paid for by a company credit card. This was a tad confusing because Group A was being held under the name Batman (not really) and Batman's card was paying for everything, but we still needed a credit card from each guest for incidentals. Group B was being held under Superman, but Superman was not paying for the rooms so we needed to swipe each person's card and charge it.<br />
<br />
This brings us to Mrs. Bitch (I know I usually make up a more clever name, but this is more accurate). Mrs. Bitch was with Group A. Mrs. Bitch showed up sometime around 2:30pm and was told we did not have a room ready for her. At 4:45pm I was FINALLY able to get Mrs. Bitch and her husband into a room. Mrs. Bitch was clearly unhappy and I understood her frustration. I asked for a credit card for incidentals. She was a bit taken aback and I explained that the card would not be charged (I wasn't even swiping it into the computer for god's sake -- I was simply copying the numbers into her reservation) unless she and her husband ordered something, put something on their room bill, etc etc. I gave them their keys and sent them on their way. I forgot to click "check-in" until they were gone and when I did, Batman's credit card (the card that was paying for the room) declined. <i>Oh shit</i>. I told my supervisor, Cookie, and we found that Batman's card was only authorizing on 3 of his 10 reservations. The other 7 were declining. Cookie told me to go ahead and authorize Mrs. Bitch's card until Batman arrived and could provide a new form of payment. I went back into the reservation and found, to my horror, that, when the card declined, I had closed out the screen without saving my changes. Thus, Mrs. Bitch's credit card was not saved in her reservation and there was no payment for the room. Cookie told me we would deal with it whenever Batman arrived.<br />
<br />
The rest of the afternoon remained this chaotic. People tried to check-in, we tried to get them into rooms, and it was just all very sloppy and made me miss the efficiency of my old hotel. Around 6pm Mrs. Bitch came up to the front desk, making a beeline for me. Her eyebrows were pinched together, her mouth was tight, and you could feel the hatred pouring out of her.<br />
<br />
She motioned to a group of Letter Carriers sitting in the lobby. "That woman says you didn't take her card at check-in and I want to know why you took mine."<br />
<br />
"That was just for incidentals," I said, "your card will not actually be charged unless you put something on the room."<br />
<br />
"But why was mine taken and hers wasn't?"<br />
<br />
"Every reservation is different. I promise that your card is not going to be charged. I didn't even swipe it into the computer."<br />
<br />
"But I want to know WHY YOU TOOK MY CARD AND NOT HERS."<br />
<br />
<i>Now, I'm just going to take a moment and say that my tolerance for being bullied is at an all time low. The shit I have gone through at graduate school this past year has made me very sensitive and a bit bitter at feeling like I'm being jerked around or walked on and, let's face it, I don't need this summer job. Thus, I was a bit more casual (and in the end: snippy) with Mrs. Bitch than I ever would have been at my Mackinac hotel (Cindy, if you're reading this, I'm sorry).</i><br />
<br />
I leaned over the counter to look at the group of Letter Carriers. "What woman are you talking about?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"That woman." She pointed to a lady with red hair.<br />
<br />
"Honestly," I said, feeling a bit fed-up, "I did not check her in. Out of the people under Batman's name I only checked you in so no, I did not take her card because I did not check her in. We are supposed to take a credit card for incidentals and I cannot help it if whoever checked her in did not do that."<br />
<br />
"Well that's just really bad management. You should all be doing the same thing!"<br />
<br />
"I absolutely agree. We should all be doing the same thing and I am really sorry that we aren't. Two of us are brand new -- it's our second day -- and we're still learning. I am really sorry that it's all been so chaotic."<br />
<br />
"I just want to let you know how angry I am," <i>No shit, Sherlock. </i>"I have never seen a place so disorganized."<br />
<br />
"I agree with you. This has been really awful."<br />
<br />
"You shouldn't take my card unless you're taking EVERYONE'S card."<br />
<br />
I leaned towards her. "Look," I said, "I am going to be honest with you. I messed up. Batman's card declined while I was trying to check you in and when it did that, I should have hit 'save,' but I didn't, and your card was wiped from our system. You card is not in our computer at all."<br />
<br />
"And yet you took MY card and not her's?!"<br />
<br />
"Again, I did not check her in. And your card is not in our computer whatsoever." <br />
<br />
"I am really angry about this. ALL OF THIS."<br />
<br />
"I totally get that and I think you should be because the way everything was handled today just sucks. I can offer you a voucher for two free drinks in our restaurant -- actual alcohol, not just like a coke or something. I am really sorry, but this is literally all I can give you and we're actually not even supposed to give these out."<br />
<br />
The woman took the drink ticket and stared at me. It was clear she was calculating something behind her beady little eyes, but I couldn't figure out what. I had just told her that her card information wasn't saved so there was no way she was getting charged for the room. Even if she was charged (which she couldn't be without handing over a credit card again), her company would obviously pay her back so it wasn't like she was losing any money on this. I was giving her coveted free drink tickets and sincerely agreeing with her in her anger. What more did she want??<br />
<br />
She studied the drink tickets. "If it were up to me," she said, "I wouldn't stay here." <br />
<br />
"I don't blame you," I replied.<br />
<br />
"I am going to recommend that we never stay here again."<br />
<br />
"As you should."<br />
<br />
"The check-in process was awful."<br />
<br />
"I agree with you 120%."<br />
<br />
"If it were up to me, I would leave tonight."<br />
<br />
At this point, my tolerance meter exploded and I just wanted her gone before my anger began to match hers. "<span dir="ltr" id=":15j">I get that," I said, "and again, I am <i>really sorry</i>, but I have done everything
in my power to make you happy. Obviously nothing is going to work so I have nothing
else to say to you." And then I turned away from her and waited on another guest.</span><br />
<span dir="ltr" id=":15j"><br /></span>
<span dir="ltr" id=":15j">I was shaking at this point. This woman's anger had gotten under my skin so much that all I could think was <i>Screw this. I don't need this job. I can just leave and have an actual summer break. I don't need this. I don't need to be treated like this. I'm unhappy at grad school, so why be unhappy even when I'm not there? Screw these people.</i></span><br />
<br />
<span dir="ltr" id=":15j">Luckily, I didn't exactly abandon ship immediately and felt a bit better as I hung out with my coworkers and met some nicer guests (although, I won't lie, the ratio was about 70:30 for cranky vs nice). Cookie told me that the craziness of today -- being short staffed in housekeeping, not having rooms ready on time, and having disgruntled guests -- is not unusual for this property or for Estes Park in general. So that's...not encouraging.</span><br />
<br />
<span dir="ltr" id=":15j">Later that night, Cookie took me on a tour of the property. We walked through the kitchen, the storage area, accounting, the conference center, etc. The Elk Inn is made up of three buildings: two buildings of rooms and the conference center. Cookie and I entered on the first floor of Building 2 and started to walk down the hallway towards a group of people when suddenly I heard, "And she took MY card for incidentals, but not anyone else's." I froze and whispered to Cookie, "That's the bitch." We both stood there for a moment, unseen by Mrs. Bitch as she repeated, "She took MY card, but no one else's!" I struggled between wanting to turn around and run or walk up and say, "Hey! That's a lie, just FYI, and you know it. Also, it was your husband's credit card, not your own, because you're one of those women whose only identity is through their husband, which I know because when I asked for your name at check-in you said 'Mrs. Kenneth Rotolo*,' which is clearly not your name. So, if you have a problem, let's do this RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW. SO HELP ME I WILL PUSH YOU INTO A HERD OF ELK."</span><br />
<span dir="ltr" id=":15j"><br /></span>
<span dir="ltr" id=":15j">Instead, Cookie and I turned around and went out the back door. We went to Building 3 and entered on the basement level. He showed me the hotel rooms where a few employees had to live last summer when the dorms became too crowded. We started to go up a set of stairs when we heard voices. It was Mrs. Bitch <i>again</i>. She was still complaining about me, about the hotel, and just about life in general because she is clearly a sorry, bitter woman who has nothing better to do. I know that may make <i>me</i> sound bitter, but it's just true. Any sane human being knows that the person behind a desk is usually not the one with the power, or the one who is making your day harder than it should be. Instead, that person behind the desk is doing their job, they are trying to appease you as much as possible, and, basically, they are a face for you to yell at. Also, this woman was easily 50 years old. Grow up and find something else to talk about.</span><br />
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<span dir="ltr" id=":15j">Cookie and I stayed at the bottom of the stairs and listened to Mrs. Bitch say how we gave her the "round around," how we had "manipulated" her, and then she said she was going to break something inside the hotel room and "just say that I found it that way. How would they know?" The person who was with her said, "Yeah, but they have your credit card on file so I wouldn't risk it," and Mrs. Bitch responded sadly, "Damn. I know. I forgot about that." Yeah -- and you also forgot that I told you I didn't save your card information. MAYBE IF YOU WOULD LISTEN TO OTHER PEOPLE INSTEAD OF ONLY LISTENING TO YOURSELF YOU WOULD REMEMBER THAT.</span><br />
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<span dir="ltr" id=":15j">After listening to this woman for about five minutes, my anger subsided slightly. Hearing that woman fabricate my conversation with her (she claims that she asked to check into her room and I said, "Absolutely not!") and bitch over and over about the hotel and the front desk staff -- I began to feel sorry for her. What a horrible and lonely life she must have to get so angry about a sloppy check-in process. No one got hurt. Her bank account wasn't drained. She wasn't sent outside to wait in the cold for hours. In fact, she was offered a room with her "friends" and given free booze and a fruit parfait. She was even given two vouchers for free drinks AND she wasn't even paying for her hotel room (also, she's from Colorado Springs, so it's not like she flew here or traveled a great distance). And yet, a sloppy check-in process ruined her entire day and I am going to go ahead and assume her entire week. In fact, I bet she will talk about this for the next year or any time someone mentions Estes Park. What a truly sad and angry life she must lead. On top of all of that, her face looks like an angry emu. </span><br />
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<span dir="ltr" id=":15j"><i>Sorry. I couldn't resist!</i></span><span dir="ltr" id=":15j"><i> </i></span></div>
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<span dir="ltr" id=":15j">By the end of the night, everyone had felt Mrs. Bitch's wrath. Before Cookie and I ran into her in the hallway/stairwell, Mrs. Bitch had been in the lobby yelling to her friends, "Fuck this hotel! This hotel is the worst! I will never stay here again!" Batman, who had <i>finally</i> showed up, told her to calm down and that everything would be fixed in the morning. He explained that he had forgotten to up the credit limit on their company card and that that was why his card declined. According to Apple, Batman said, "You won't be charged for the room. I will fix it all in the morning and the front desk staff has been helping me out." Mrs. Bitch responded, "Fuck. This. Hotel. We will never stay here again!"<i> </i>That's fine with us, Mrs. Bitch. Your presence will not be missed!</span></div>
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<span dir="ltr" id=":15j">*People who are super mean and ugly do not get the liberty of having their name changed in this blog.</span></div>
Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-12045672679108517142015-05-10T16:42:00.000-07:002015-05-11T09:24:25.335-07:00Summer 2015: Pigs, Balls, and ElkHello dear readers! After an almost a six month hiatus I am back! Back on the road, back in a National Park, and back to blogging. I'm sorry I took such a long break. I won't go into too much detail, but basically grad school threw a few unexpected roadblocks my way (which have yet to be unblocked) and I found myself stretched very thin between that unexpected problem, keeping up with schoolwork, and trying to stay on-task with my freelance writing. That being said -- now it is summertime and the living is easy! Or, rather, easy-ish since I still have to deal with that damn roadblock, but oh well. Now is no time to think about that! Instead, let's jump right into the new trials and tribulations of this nomadic twentysomething year old.<br />
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I left the state of Georgia two days ago with my father, a packed Odysseus (my car), and two Garmin GPS systems. Did you know that most GPS systems only contain maps for half of the country? My dad's had the eastern United States in it and mine had the western. My dad's GPS could not fathom anything past the Mississippi River and mine just floated in space while I drove through Atlanta, trying to make sure I made the correct turns. Dad and I went north of GA a little ways and then headed straight west to Estes Park, Colorado, where I will be working as a Front Desk Clerk at a hotel we will call the Elk Inn (and just to throw this out there now -- that is not a code name for the famous Stanley Hotel).<br />
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Our drive went pretty well until we hit Kansas and, while beautiful, I found myself missing the cornfields and random mosque sightings of Indiana. Kansas was sunny and warm -- about seventy degrees. By the time we reached Colorado the temperature had dropped a bit and I felt silly in my flip flops and running shorts, but not totally insane. The next morning it was almost forty degrees...and sleeting...<br />
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Colorado has not quite been what I was expecting. For starters, there is snow -- <i>everywhere. </i>Estes park is a little over 7,500 ft high. I hear it "snows all summer" at 8,000 ft, but that Estes can get a sprinkling here and there. My leg sank calf-deep in a snow bank today and word on the elk-lined street is that we are supposed to get a foot of snow tonight. <i>This is a sprinkling?!</i> I feel like the two kids from that YouTube video: <i>It's raining. No, it's sprinkling. </i>No, it is actually snowing.<br />
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When dad and I arrived at the Elk Inn I checked-in with my new boss and was given a very brief rundown of the next few days: I will be sleeping in a room in the hotel until I clear my drug test on Monday. My boss pointed to numbered squares on a map of the hotel. "You're going to be in this building," he said, drawing a blue highlighter circle around a rectangular building that was adjacent to the rest. "It's empty right now so it'll just be you in that building." I wanted to look at him and ask, "Have you learned <i>nothing</i> from The Shining??" Nevertheless, I accepted the key and went to check it out.<br />
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After this brief check-in, Dad and I drove around the corner to the employee housing. The housing is a long, narrow, rectangular building. There is a small sitting room and afterthought kitchen by the entrance and then rows of doors leading to bedrooms. I found my bedroom, knocked (because I have a roommate who has already been here for a month), and let myself in. The only word I can think to describe the room is "ramshackle." First off, the doorknob just hangs from its hole in the door. It's not actually functional. There were two double beds, but it was hard to tell which one was currently being used and which was not. The room was dark except for a small, dim lamp on a tiny table between the two beds. The bathroom fan was on even though no switch was thrown and the whole place was just dark, dingy, and looked like the kind of hotel room where drug rings are busted. My heart immediately sank and I started to think, <i>This may not work out</i>. On my way out of Drug Ring Central I ran into three other seasonal employees, two of which will be working at the front desk with me.<br />
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<i>My housing! Just kidding. This is the condemned building behind the hotel that I </i>thought <i>was my housing and even tried to get into one of the rooms. Luckily, my actual housing is behind this building, but I am not sure which looks shabbier. </i> </div>
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Not wanting to waste our day, Dad and I grabbed some lunch and then headed into Rocky Mountain National Park. It started to snow as we pulled up outside the Visitor Center. Dad laughed and said, "Isn't this great?" I scowled and mentally calculated how long I would have to stay in Colorado in order to tell people, "See? I tried! It just didn't work out. Darn."<br />
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Although snow-covered and feeling like the middle of winter, the Rockies are beautiful. We saw some elk, drove to about 9,000 ft, and felt the impact of the altitude after climbing up a small hill.<br />
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<i>Some photos from Rocky Mountains Trip #1</i></div>
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After driving around winding roads for a few hours, Dad and I headed back to the hotel to rest a while before dinner. I decided to explore the hotel a bit and began following signs to the Fitness Center, but somehow missed it and ended up in the front lobby. This was fortuitous because two of the three people I had met earlier were working and I was able to chat with them. The guy asked me what I thought about the housing. I hesitated, trying to think of something nice to say, and the girl finally spoke for me: "It sucks, doesn't it?"<i> </i>I breathed a sigh of relief, happy that if I am going to be miserable, at least I can commiserate this misery with others. </div>
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Also, brief side note -- while talking to my boyfriend on the phone, I stood at the end of the hotel's second floor hallway and watched people walking in and out of the hotel. The Elk Inn accepts pets and I watched this walk inside:</div>
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<i>Apparently this is a therapy animal: Ziggy the Piggy.</i></div>
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Dad and I ate at the Elk Inn's restaurant for dinner. I am allowed one meal during every shift that I work this summer so I was anxious to see what my options would be. Turns out they are fairly limited, but the food wasn't bad. Our waitress, also a new employee, was from Minnesota and asked if we would like the fried Rocky Mountain oyster appetizer that was on special. Islanders who are not known to pass up seafood, Dad and I said yes, but regretted this decision as the oysters tasted horrendous. Each bite was chewy and bitter and had an odd burnt flavour to it. Obviously, being over 900 miles away from the nearest ocean, we didn't expect much, but these were just plain weird. Still, they didn't taste like they had gone bad and we were compelled to finish the ten between us because a) who wastes oysters? and b) we didn't want to be rude (although I'll admit the islander in me was going, <i>How did you mess these up so egregiously?</i>). When the waitress asked how they were my dad responded, "Were those actually oysters?" The girl look confused. "I think so," she said. "Did they not taste like oysters?"</div>
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"They were a little strange," I admitted.</div>
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"And they were flat," Dad said, "oysters are normally thicker."</div>
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The girl nodded. "I've never actually had oysters before so I wouldn't know."</div>
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"Are they supposed to be fresh?" I asked, genuinely curious as to whether there were salt water refineries in Colorado. I remembered a couple sitting behind us at the restaurant from the previous night (our first night in Colorado) eating oysters on the half-shell. Maybe Colorado was trying to reap the benefits of expensive seafood.</div>
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The girl said she found the concept of Rocky Mountain oysters strange, too, but assumed they came out of the ocean and were frozen.</div>
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Dad and I then headed over to a grocery store to pick up some things for breakfast. We ran into the Scooby-Doo Mystery Machine and by the time we headed back to the hotel it was snowing...again. The predication was a foot of snow by 4 a.m.</div>
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Before bed, I called my boyfriend again and told him about the rest of the day. I started to tell him about the Rocky Mountain oysters and he stopped me: "You didn't eat those, did you?"</div>
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"I know, I know," I said, knowing he's as much of a seafood snob as I am (basically meaning, if you're not within an hour of the ocean then you can't call it "fresh"), "we thought we'd give it a shot."</div>
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"Those aren't oysters."</div>
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"Not <i>fresh</i> oysters. They were probably frozen beforehand --"</div>
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"No. Those <i>are not</i> oysters."</div>
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"...what are they?"</div>
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"Testicles."</div>
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After much "what? no they're not!" I looked it up on Google and found the horrendous truth: Rocky Mountain oysters are fried bull, goat, or cow testicles, depending on what's on hand.</div>
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OH. MY. GOD. First, let's talk about how strange it is to eat something so disgusting, and be aware <i>as you are eating it </i>that it is disgusting, and yet you still eat it because you don't realize what it actually is (sort of like a placebo effect, but much more nauseating). Also, WHY were the testicles served with a traditional horseradish cocktail sauce? The kind you always see served with shrimp? That was clearly put there to fake out Colorado tourists and newbies into thinking that these are <i>actual </i>from-the-ocean, out-of-a-hard-shell, pearl-producing oysters.</div>
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So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. My first day in Estes Park and I have learned that I will be living in a crack house, there's snow on the ground and I am still wearing flip flops, there are pigs in my hotel, and I have had more balls in my mouth than I ever preferred to. Do I hear the faint sounds of Blue Ridge banjo plucking?</div>
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<i>Feeling super unsure and super cold outside of Estes.</i></div>
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<br />Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-79798335007550936392014-11-17T18:16:00.002-08:002016-03-03T09:17:13.320-08:00Let's Talk About Weather<style>
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</style><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;">One night
during my senior year at Kalamazoo College in Michigan I drove a few friends
home after Half-Off Long Island Night at a bar. Most of the people lived within
walking distance of the bar, but it started to pour so I snaked my way up and
down one-way streets to get my passengers home safely. The last person I needed
to drop off was Mark, a guy who I was semi-dating at the time. As I pulled away
from campus and onto Main Street the rain became a monsoon. I could hardly see
in front of me and was grateful there were no other vehicles on the road so
that I could drive at 5 mph. A siren started to sound from behind me, but the
rain was too dense to see where the ambulance or fire truck was coming from.
Luckily I was near Mark's street so I kept driving.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;">Parked in
Mark's driveway, we sat and listened to the rain and sirens for a while. I'm
not sure what Mark was waiting for, but I was biding my time hoping he would
invite me inside. Mark was not the most "physical" guy I had ever
dated, but he was a sweet man and just what I needed after my boyfriend of
three years had stomped on my heart the previous summer. Any action I got from
Mark was initiated by me, but I had never been ballsy enough to invite myself
inside Mark's home.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;">We started to
comment on the weather, the lightning illuminating the sky, and we gradually
approached the subject of "us". Somewhere in this conversation I
received a text from one of my housemates: </span><span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: small;">Where are you?</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;"> I replied: </span><span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: small;">In my car with Mark. What's up?</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;"> Immediately my phone
rang. "What do you <i>mean</i> you're in your car?" Laura snapped.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;">"Uhh I was
driving people home after drinking at Roadhouse and now Mark and I are in my
car?" I tried to send Laura telepathic messages saying, <i>I am trying to
make a move here and you're cramping my style</i>. Unfortunately, our
telepathic language is normally relayed in wide eyes and eyebrow movements so
she wasn't picking up on my message.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;"><br />
"Don't you hear the siren?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;"><br />
"You hear it too?" I said, looking back to the road. Mark lived one
street over from my house so it was possible that I could hear the ambulance if
it was near my roommates. "It's moving really slowly. <i>Oh my god!</i>"
Suddenly I wondered if the ambulance wasn't moving. What if it was stopped
because it was tending to whoever was hurt? What if it was stopped at my house?
"Is everyone okay?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;"><br />
"That is a <i>tornado siren</i>," Laura said, "there is a
tornado <i>in the area</i>."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;">The brief panic
I felt that one of my housemates may be injured deflated. "Oh," I
said, turning to look at Mark. I'm from the coast of Georgia. I wasn't sure if
I had ever heard an active <i>there's a tornado seek shelter now</i> tornado
siren. I had heard the ones they tested in Kalamazoo from time to time, but the
unending siren I was hearing that night hadn't registered as the same sort of
siren. Mark was <i>from</i> Michigan, however. What was his excuse?
"Should we get out of the car?" I asked more hesitantly than I should
have.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;">"YES GET
OUT OF THE CAR. We're all in the laundry room." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;">I relayed all
of this information to Mark. We went inside his house. The tornado never came
to our street or our college, but I was grateful for the sudden temperamental
weather because it got me what I wanted -- and invitation inside. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;">I was reminded
of this night in my car with Mark when I woke up this morning to tornado sirens
in Milledgeville, Georgia. Having grown up on a small island off the coast of
Georgia, I forget that there are areas of the state where tornadoes can
actually form and cause some damage. It was 9:30am when the sound of the siren
woke me up. After a fever-and-sore-throat fueled night kept me from getting
much sleep I felt delirious and thought, "I don't remember hearing them
test the sirens before. Oh well. Maybe they test them once a month and I never
paid attention." I pulled my comforter over my head to go back to sleep.
On a typical Monday, I would have already been at my assistantship for an hour
and a half at this time, but when 1:30am rolled around and I was still tossing
and turning I emailed my advisor telling her I was too sick to come in. Before
I shut my eyes I instinctively checked my phone. My daily TimeHop app was
waiting for me to view it, I had a few texts from some MFA friends, and a
weather alert: </span><span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: small;">Tornado
Warning in effect until 10:15 a.m. Seek shelter now.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;">I sat up and
took out my earplugs. The siren was still blaring and it was pouring. My cat,
Belmont, stretched on the body pillow on the floor and looked at me sleepily. I
couldn't remember the difference between a warning and a watch so I called one
of my old housemates, Christine, from Kalamazoo. When she didn't pick up I
checked my texts from my classmates. They were from Penny and Kera asking if we
were all going to meet at the local coffee shop at noon for our Monday writing
date. I responded to the group text: </span><span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: small;">I'm not going to make it out today because I am super sick
and it hurts to swallow. I had to call in sick :( Btw, is there a tornado
warning?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;">Kera responded:
</span><span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: small;">Yes - we're all
downstairs taking cover! Stay away from windows.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;"> She asked if I needed any medicine and
offered to pick some up later. Then she added: </span><span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: small;">Also, tornado is actually heading in our direction
from Macon, so this is no joke!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;">I stood up and
reached for Belmont. My cat gets scared if I move too quickly and she darted
from my grasp. I chased her into the second bedroom, picked her up, and dropped
her when she dug her claws into my chest. Instead I grabbed my laptop, told
Belmont she was on her own, and went into the bathroom. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;">This seemed
humourous to me -- four years out of college, living on my own, having dealt
with a few harrowing storms during my time in Chicago and yet I was still
relying on friends to tell me what to do during a tornado. Tornadoes are one
of two natural disasters I just don't think about because they're never
been huge threats in places where I lived (the other is earthquakes). On the
southeastern coast we get tornadoes with hurricanes, but usually you're more
worried about the hurricane as a whole rather than the tornadoes that come with
it. And truth be told, hurricanes in coastal Georgia were awesome because we
would always have the threat of the storm, schools would be closed, and
sometimes we had to evacuate, but the hurricanes never actually hit the Golden
Isles. They would get close enough to make businesses board-up and then
suddenly they would catch the Gulf Stream and ride it straight into the
Carolinas. My memories of Hurricane Season include eating at Chic-fil-a with
friends after school was closed in the middle of the day, driving through
flooded areas in golf carts, and sitting on the beach watching the Atlantic
ocean waves battle each other. My family and I wouldn't even evacuate until it
was mandatory. When it came to hurricanes, I did the minimal amount of
preparation required. Tornadoes, however, are so unfamiliar that I will do
whatever people tell me to do. Seek shelter? Done. Sit in a door frame? Got it.
Pull my mattress into the bathroom and create a bunker out of my bathtub? I'm
already there. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;">I did not bring
my mattress into the bathroom, but I did spend the next hour sitting on the
floor with my back against the tub texting storm updates with Kera. She was
being fed information by the people at the college and I was telling her what I
was hearing outside -- rain, the siren, and possibly hail at one point when
suddenly the rain was so loud that I thought a window may have flown open.
Penny reported that everyone in the library was also taken to a basement area.
Jeanette began texting me and told me how to duck-and-cover should a tornado
actually pass over my apartment. A tornado entered south Baldwin County, the
rain became so deafening that I could no longer hear the siren and then
suddenly it all seemed to stop. A voice replaced the siren, but I couldn't
understand it. By the time I left the bathroom the voice had stopped and there
was a series of low honks, a sound that I learned during a snow emergency in
Chicago meant "all clear." I started to text Kera when the voice
spoke again and said, "All clear. The emergency is over."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;">As I left the
bathroom I noticed blood on my hand. I looked down and saw a bright red streak
where Belmont had sunk her claws into my chest. "You little bitch," I
said to Belmont, who I knew was still hiding under my bed, "I was just
trying to save your life." I had to use the last bandaid in my apartment
to cover the small hole. I guess if Belmont and I are going to go through this
for the next three years I'll have to get more bandaids. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
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Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-77454610977909912982014-09-25T11:53:00.002-07:002014-09-25T11:55:14.402-07:00A Milledgeville UpdateHello, dear readers! You would think being in an MFA writing program would mean I would write blog posts more often. Sadly, that seems to not be the case. Since coming to Milledgeville I have been writing a lot, but not for this blog. Part of it is because I am trying to perfect my writing for class, another part is that I am writing for freelance gigs, and the last part is that I just have not had much to write about.<br />
<br />
It has now been almost two months since I left Chicago and I am desperately homesick. The smallest thing can remind me of the Windy City and God help me if I am even slightly inebriated when this happens because it is instant beer-tears. I am trying to "make do" here. I am inviting people over to my apartment to hangout or watch a movie, I accept EVERY invitation that I get, I am going to the gym whenever I feel sad (thank god because I also can't stop eating comfort food), and I got a cat. The cat's name is Belmont (named after a Chicago L stop -- big help when trying not to have anything remind me of Chitown) and while she is still a bit skittish around me I think we are becoming friends. She has now learned that there is not a horrible monster atop my bed and that if she jumps up there then she will be scratched and pet. It's a slow learning process, but I think we'll make some significant progress by December -- just in time for me to take her to St. Simons for the month-long Christmas break, thus freaking her out again. Hooray!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Good Things About Milledgeville </b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>(because listing thing always makes me feel more positive)</b></div>
<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li><b>Food </b>and <b>drink </b>is cheap. Two mixed drinks will cost you less than $8 (together, not each) and when the Braces play, the one "happening" bar in town marks everything half-off. I never thought I would care about when the Braves played until now!</li>
<li>There is just one <b>panhandler </b>in Milledgeville, which is a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, you aren't passing a minimum of ten people asking you for money everyday, but on the other hand you get a bit tired of the same man approaching you over and over. My boyfriend gave this man money once, but didn't a second time. After this second time, the panhandler stomped off and overturned a trash can lid because he was so angry. Surprisingly, that has never happened to me in Chicago. At least I know who to avoid on the street!</li>
<li>Being surrounded by other <b>writers </b>has influenced me to write more and seek-out freelance jobs. I am fortunate to have scored a few paying gigs and even wrote an article that ended up being published on the <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/the-purple-fig/feminist-porn_b_5851132.html" target="_blank">Huffington Post</a>! That definitely would not have happened if I was still in Chicago.</li>
<li>"Free" <b>gym membership</b> at my college's Wellness Center. I realize that my Student Fees technically pay for me to use the gym, but that money was taken out of my financial aid before I ever saw it so it feels like it is free.</li>
</ol>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Okay that's all I've got for now. Maybe I'll become gradually more appreciative of this town as time goes on. When people ask me, "How are you liking Milledgeville?" I answer, "The school is nice and my classmates are nice, but I hate the town." That pretty much sums up my current sentiments.<br />
<br />
Fun fact: Flannery O'Connor, Milledgeville and Georgia College's claim to fame, hated Milledgeville too. What a smart lady!Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-70199657431805809102014-08-05T11:30:00.003-07:002014-08-05T11:32:12.903-07:00Toto, We're Not in Chicago AnymoreOn Thursday, July 31st I officially moved out of my apartment in the Rogers Park neighbourhood of Chicago and headed south to my graduate program at Georgia College and State University. During the move my favourite purse broke, my dad lost his wallet, and a man in a red car was kind enough to leave some of his paint on my silver car. Needless to say, I felt the travel gods were telling me not to leave Chicago.<br />
<br />
The drive to Milledgeville, GA was long. Google Maps says the route should only take twelve hours to drive, but with construction and traffic jams nearly every twenty miles it felt closer to eighteen. At one point I wondered if we would ever get out of the state of Indiana in two days. We did, thankfully, and arrived in Milledgeville about thirty-six hours after we left the beautiful Windy City.<br />
<br />
The closer we got to Milledgeville (Milly) the more the reality of this move began to sink in. The small country roads, farm after farm, and 90+% humidity kept reminding me how far I was from the Midwest. Twenty-four miles outside of Milly my mother pointed out the Rock Eagle camp that I went to when I was in middle school. I was never a big fan of going to camp as a child (my mother will never let me forget the time she had to come and pick me up early because I was "sick") and I started to feel the familiar butterflies in my stomach that I would get when rolling up to a cabin with my blanket and duffel bag.<br />
<br />
We continued along the small two-lane road. We passed spray-painted signs for "VIDALIA ONIONS" and "FRESH PECANS" and then came "PECHES". I took my eyes off the road to stare at the sign. "Peches"? Georgia is The Peach State. Someone can't spell "peaches" in <i>The Peach State?! </i>I looked at my mum and pouted. "What am I doing here??" She gave me her normal It's Going to be Great speech. We passed a few more farms, an abandoned plant, crossed over a large lake and entered Milledgeville.<br />
<br />
My apartment in Milledgeville has recently changed management companies. The previous management company let the complex become a student ghetto, but the new guys are trying to spruce it up. You can both see where the new guys have done a lot of work and where some improvements still need to be made (for example, an AC vent in my kitchen likes to drip a significant amount of water during the night and three of my four windows are broken). It's not too bad though and with some real TLC I think the apartment will become pretty nice. This is the first time I have ever lived alone so that is going to take some getting used to, especially since I know no one in Milledgeville. Needless to say, this next month or two is going to be a hard adjustment (I like being surrounded by people), but I'll just have to hope that it will all get better.<br />
<br />
After moving all of my stuff into the apartment and going out for a birthday lunch (I moved to Milly on my 26th birthday!), my parents headed back to their home on St. Simons Island. My boyfriend, who lives three hours from Milly, stayed with me to help me set up and settle in. Unpacking was a bit hard because that's when I finally realized that this was it -- the point of no return. It didn't help that the street next to me was called Hancock or that there was a sign for Water Tower Place. Every little thing reminded me of Chicago or the friends I had left and I became more and more depressed and worried that this was all a horrible mistake. I mean, I'm only twenty-six. Did I really need an MFA <i>now? </i>Couldn't I have waited until Columbia College could finally offer me some money? Or maybe I should have just gone to Columbia and dealt with the crippling student debt later. All of that would be better than living in Milledgeville, GA, right? <i>Right? What if I die in my apartment and no one knows because I don't have a roommate or any friends in town?!?</i><br />
<br />
Ross decided it was time to leave my apartment for a little while. I was clearly losing my mind and freaking out and I wasn't even alone in the apartment yet! Milledgeville doesn't exactly have a lot to do (aaggghh!) so we drove to Walmart to pick up some things for the apartment. For those who know me you know that this is a big deal -- I hate Walmart. I am from the Bible Belt and, for me, the website <a href="http://peopleofwalmart.com/">PeopleOfWalmart.com</a> just hits a little too close to home. Walmart is scary, redneck, rude, and the people there will either run you down with a shopping cart or just shoot you if you are in their way.<br />
<br />
So there we were -- in Walmart because the closest Target is forty-four miles away. We grabbed a few things for my kitchen, some coffee creamer, a new mirror, and a few other random odds and ends. We went through the Self-Checkout and a pair of tongs I had grabbed didn't have a bar-code. A man behind me was wearing a Walmart-blue polo shirt and a nametag so I started to ask him what I should do, but then I realized his nametag said "Kroger". The man sighed, "That's been happening all day." I wanted to pointed out that he was dressed exactly like a Walmart person and should maybe remove the nametag, but doing so would have kept me in Walmart that much longer. I found an actual Walmart clerk, asked her how I could key-in the tongs and she snapped, "I am NOT leaving my post." I remembered why I hate Walmart, put the tongs down and left.<br />
<br />
Later in the evening Ross and I found ourselves <i>back</i> at Walmart. That's right -- once was not enough! This time it was to get cleaning supplies, a tire pump, and a cake with candles so we could celebrate what was feeling like a very depressing birthday. The store was mobbed. Walmart is the happening place in Milledgeville and is apparently becoming my equivalent of walking up and down Michigan Avenue. This time I started to therapy shop and impulsively grabbed a purple owl-shaped fly swatter from a bin of colourful fly swatters. When we were ready to checkout, I realized that we had forgotten to get hand soap. The toiletries section was on the opposite end of Walmart and you could barely see the aisles through the throng of people. Devising a battle plan, Ross weaved his way to Self-Checkout while I pushed and pulled my way towards the toiletries. A steady stream of "<i>screw this, I hate this place, what am I doing here, this is actual Hell</i>" rolled through my head.<br />
<br />
Finally, I broke through all of the people, but was blocked by a mother and her three children. They were ambling as slow as possible with their empty shopping cart and I rolled my eyes as I trudge behind them. The Walmart crowd was oddly dense around these women, but I thought nothing of it until I passed two young girls who were whispering into a phone, "Honey Boo Boo's whole family is here!" I looked around aghast. In Chicago, I had joked to everyone, "You don't know where Milledgeville is? Well do you know Honey Boo Boo? She lives right outside of the city. Yep -- I can't <i>wait</i> to see her all of the time." Clearly I was kidding and never thought that I would actually see Honey Boo Boo. (I watched my first episode of <i>Here Comes Honey Boo Boo </i>during the trip from Chicago to Milly. It didn't exactly make me feel any better about the move...)<br />
<br />
Now I was on the lookout. <i>Honey Boo Boo is actually here? Am I actually going to see her?</i> The woman in front of me turned around to look at something. She was short and plump and had laser yellow hair on the top of her head with a layer of chocolate brown underneath. Her face almost turned to look at me and I suddenly realized -- that was Mama June, Honey Boo Boo's mother. I looked at the girls walking in front of her cart and finally recognized them from the one episode I had watched. A shorter, younger girl was leading the pack. She wore gray shorts and a lime-green hoodie that was pulled over her head. She also turned towards me and I recognized her blond curls immediately: Honey Boo Boo. I stopped short and the crowd of Walmart people quickly filed passed me to get to the Boo Boo clan. I ducked into a shampoo aisle and watched everyone walk away. One woman approached Mama June and threw her arm over June's shoulder. June laughed, but shrugged the woman off and made a gesture that said, "We just want to shop. Please leave us alone." I quickly called my mother and texted my close college friends: "...Honey <i>fucking</i> Boo Boo just passed me in Walmart."<br />
<br />
I met Ross back at Self-Checkout and tried to explain why I was so frazzled about seeing Honey Boo Boo. It wasn't that I was excited to see her. Honestly, had I not heard those girls whispering on the phone, I probably wouldn't have noticed the Boo Boo clan at all. I was more flabbergasted by the fact that here I was in my new "home", Hickville, USA, and I was in a Walmart <i>and</i> I had just seen Honey Boo Boo. I am from the state of Georgia, but I am from the coast. Coastal and inland Georgia are worlds apart and, after living in the Midwest for almost eight years and Chicago for almost three, everything was beginning to feel like culture shock overload. I needed to get out of Walmart and I needed to get out of Milledgeville. Unfortunately, only one of those things could be accomplished immediately.<br />
<br />
Ross and I split up to pay for our separate items (I was not buying my own birthday cake). My items didn't want to scan and the machine kept acting like I wasn't bagging anything. I pulled out my fly swatter and found an empty plastic ring stuck between the owl's eyes, where the price tag should have been. I didn't know how to key-in the fly swatter and after the rude clerk from earlier I didn't want to ask for help. I put the swatter to the side and figured I'd leave the money on the conveyer belt when I was done (a whopping $1). The woman waiting for my spot grew impatient and called a clerk over to hurry me along. The man came, scanned the rest of my items for me and left. Ross finally reappeared and started placing the bags into the shopping cart. The woman behind me pushed her cart towards us, forcing Ross to move my shopping basket. She began unloading all of her crap onto the conveyer belt, even though I hadn't completed my transaction. I turned towards the woman. I wanted to yell at her and unload all of my frustration on her. I wanted to tell her to "BACK THE FUCK OFF" and that her cowboy hat was stupid and that she looked like a hick. I wanted to tell her that I hated this town and lament that I hadn't even been in Milledgeville for twenty-four hours and yet I had already run into Honey Boo Boo. My friends were far away, I had left my theatre family, I was about to live by myself for the first time ever, I had moved from a major metropolis to a town that didn't even have a Target, I had returned to the Bible Belt, which I swore I would never do, and to top it all off I was in Walmart for a <i>second</i> time that day. I thought about throwing my birthday cake in the woman's face. Instead, I swiped my debit card and entered my PIN. The fly swatter was still on the conveyer belt. I knew if I left a dollar then this woman would take it so I grabbed the purple owl, through it into a bag and thought, "Fuck it. I'll deal with the karma later."<br />
<br />
Ross and I left Walmart and headed to Mellow Mushroom for pizza. As we unloaded the bags into my car I confessed my theft of the fly swatter. I pointed to the bag containing the offending object and stopped. At the bottom of the purple handle, where I had been holding the swatter, was a bar-code. The purple owl had a price tag the whole time and I hadn't even noticed it. I thought about returning to the store and paying for the swatter, but decided against it. Returning to Walmart would possibly make me breakdown in tears and I imagined myself weeping at the Self-Checkout. I had already seen Honey Boo Boo. The last thing I needed was to end up on <a href="http://peopleofwalmart.com/">PeopleofWalmart.com</a>. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkFNQAqYre-ihcRy32R9PGQ28lOm4bCDzBOgHGR6SYHHjOfucLLKTgEF979aweEue005mxO0c_85-KNN0OmnSXHd690djQWp3mdrW9Z1SCyHzDyUdkRa7UTcXHFTEOMtCBNLDtt4rWxUgl/s1600/Offending+Owl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkFNQAqYre-ihcRy32R9PGQ28lOm4bCDzBOgHGR6SYHHjOfucLLKTgEF979aweEue005mxO0c_85-KNN0OmnSXHd690djQWp3mdrW9Z1SCyHzDyUdkRa7UTcXHFTEOMtCBNLDtt4rWxUgl/s1600/Offending+Owl.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The offending owl fly swatter.</div>
Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-32376921659609248232014-07-20T09:03:00.000-07:002014-07-23T09:09:37.517-07:00The HomestretchI have entered the "homestretch" of my time in Chicago. Two weeks from today I will be officially moved into my new apartment in Milledgeville, GA. I would be lying if I said I wasn't terrified. This next week is my last week at both of my jobs and all I can think is, "This is the last time I will set up the Actor Dinner. This is the last time I will work a two-show Saturday. This is the last Monday morning train I will have to catch." (Just as an FYI, I am leaving Chicago to go to grad school in Georgia. I will be getting an MFA in Creative Nonfiction Writing and working with the Nonprofit Department -- they're paying me to go to grad school. Yay!)<br />
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When I first knew that I would be leaving Chicago, I started a Chicago Bucket List. This list mostly consisted of places to eat and drink since I have already done most of the touristy things in Chicago. So far I have not done a great job at crossing things off my Bucket List. It's hard to complete a list of "Best Eats and Drinks of Chicago" when you know you will stop receiving a paycheck soon (my graduate program will give me a small stipend, but it won't quite cover rent). I was able to cross-off "drinks at the top of the Hancock" though, which was very exciting. The Hancock is my favourite building in all of Chicago and I have always wanted to go up there for drinks. The view was amazing, the drinks were strong (but expensive), and the crème brûlée was TO DIE FOR. Seriously, to anyone thinking of going to the top of the Hancock for drinks, get the crème brûlée.<br />
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View from the Signature Room<br />
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Besides crossing off my own personal Bucket List, I have done a few other "firsts" in Chicago this month. One "first" was going to a Korean spa. A friend of mine emailed a Groupon deal to me and said that we should go to the spa one evening after work. I purchased the Groupon, we set a date and that was that. It wasn't until a few hours before Katie and I were to meet that I thought to look up information about the spa. I had never been to a spa before to I was unsure if I should wear a bathing suit or if we had to walk around in robes. The website said that uniforms were provided and guests were asked to leave their clothes and belongings in assigned lockers. When you went into one of the pool-spa rooms you had to check your uniform at the door. <i>Then what are you wearing? </i>I ask myself. I kept reading these directions over and over. When Katie arrived at my apartment I asked her if I should bring a bathing suit. "Yeah," she said, hesitantly, "it's nude?"</div>
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So Katie and I went to a semi-nude spa. I say "semi" because clothing was only prohibited in the bath area. It felt strange at first, stripping down in front of a bunch of strangers and then walking around without a way to cover myself. The towels that were provided were washcloths so there was no hope of building a cocoon. You had to shower before going into the baths. Shower heads lined the walls and small five-inch barriers separated each "shower." Katie and I lathered up and giggled nervously. There were a few Asian women in the baths and one small child. I did not have my glasses on and thus could not actually see anything other than blurred figures. I began to feel oddly comfortable. Sure, I was naked and practically showering with my friend, but everyone else was naked too. It even felt a bit empowering -- all of these women walking around completely nude and making no attempts to cover themselves. I wanted to raise my fists and shout, "Yeah! Female bodies are beautiful! Everyone flaunt what you've got!" Katie even commented, "Your tattoo looks great in here." I turned, displaying my back tattoo to the women in the baths, "It was made for this precise moment!"</div>
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After the spa.</div>
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Another "first" this month was driving a boat down the Chicago River. Obviously, being from St. Simons Island, I am not a stranger to boats and I have driven a few, but there has always been an <i>actual </i>boater with me. Usually, I am on someone's boat and they offer to let me steer for a bit. This time, however, <i>I </i>was the experienced boater. </div>
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My roommate and I purchased a Groupon (are you seeing a pattern in what I do with my time?) for a two-hour electric boat rental. The boats are docked right in the loop and you are allowed to bring food and drink and have up to ten people on board. Emily and I each invited four friends. Everyone met at the harbour in time to sign paperwork that basically said, "If we crash, we are held responsible." I was the only one in the group with any boating experience (and my credit card was authorized for any damages) so I got to be Captain for the evening. We watched a video that stated it is illegal to drive a boat and drink alcohol. One friend and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes. "It's an electric boat," we agreed, "how hard can it be?"</div>
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The answer -- very hard. The boat had both sensitive and delayed steering. This meant that if I turned the wheel slightly left we would veer sharply, but not for few minutes. The river was also crowded with water taxis and architecture tours. I had a half glass of wine and stopped. The possibility of damaging the boat was suddenly too real. It took a lot of concentration to keep a straight course, but I think I did a decent job. In fact, the most harrowing part of the night was when one of my friends said she had to pee. We had just made it down the Navy Pier and were heading west again, hoping to do the north branch before we had to return the boat. We passed the boat docks and my friend pleaded to pull over. Everyone on the boat agreed that to pull over would mean the boat trip was over. Finally, someone convinced my friend, who was fortunately wearing a skirt, to kneel over an empty strawberry container and pee there. My friend did not want to do this, but as we passed the boat docks she realized she had no other choice. Everyone on the boat turned away from her (except me because I had to keep looking straight ahead) and she peed into the container. The things you do to not return something before you have to! </div>
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Boating photos.<br />
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My last "first" is an Independent Bookstore Crawl. On July 11th, Mayor Rahm Emmanuel officially declared July 12th Independent Bookstore Day in Chicago. A close friend of mine was driving down from Wisconsin to spend the weekend with me and, being writers and book-lovers, we decided to spend Saturday afternoon "crawling" the participating independent bookstores. A theatre friend of mine joined us (she is the one who actually told me about the crawl) and we made it to three of nine bookstores. That does not sound like a lot, but remember that the bookstores were in different neighbourhoods and that we had to take public transportation everywhere. Each store had sales, raffles, and treats. By the end of the day the three of us had almost twenty books each <i>and </i>we each won a raffle prize! It was very exciting. I highly recommend participating in Independent Bookstore Days.</div>
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We got the goods!</div>
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My pile of books (minus the bag I won in the raffle).<br />
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So there are some of my Chicago "firsts"! They weren't on my Bucket List, but they should have been. </div>
Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-27855104707624035082014-06-23T08:19:00.000-07:002014-06-23T08:19:00.664-07:00A Lesson from "Carrie"Last week I saw "Carrie the Musical" with a friend. Yes, this is a musical based off of the Stephen King novel (spoilers!) about the high school girl who is tormented by her classmates and ends up killing them all at the prom with her mind powers. Hopefully that did not just ruin the book/movie/musical for anyone. I will admit that I have never read the book or seen the movie and thus did not know the whole story. I knew Carrie was a loner and assumed she was picked on and I knew that she killed people at her prom. However, I always thought the blood she was covered in was the blood of her victims after she had stabbed them all the death. The whole telekinesis thing was news to me! Her psycho religious mother was also something I did not know about. When the mother was singing about how a woman's period is her "curse" because she is impure, my jaw actually dropped and I said, "The fuck?" loud enough for my friend to just nod her head.<br />
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All in all the show was decent. My friend and I thought it was worth the $20 tickets and this was also my first time experiencing Chicago's renowned Victory Garden's Theatre, which was also worth the price of admission (Sandra Oh was in the theatre across the lobby starring in "Death and the Maiden"). The singing was great, the staging was well-done and I wouldn't deter people from going. My only qualms about the show would be a) the zealot mother and b) the slightly skewed anti-bullying message. <br />
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First, the mother. In every writing class I have ever taken I have learned that all characters need to be three-dimensional. Even your villain/antagonist has to have <i>some</i> reason for becoming the bad guy. Think back to some of the classic villains we all know - Scar, Maleficent, Voldemort, etc. All of these villains are mean and terrible people (and lions), but you see where there evil comes from: jealousy, revenge, blindly believing they are in the right. Although we may not sympathize with the bad guy, we at least see a more humanizing emotion in them rather than just "I'm gonna kill you!!" Carrie's mother did not possess any sort of humanizing trait. She came off as a crazy zealot who, when Carrie gets her period, says, "I hoped this day would never come," meaning she hoped her daughter would never hit puberty and turn into a woman. What? Did you think she was going to die before she was 13? Also, as far as the musical goes, it is not exactly clear <i>how</i> Carrie came to be. Clearly the mother "sinned" and had sex in order to have Carrie. The mother sings about Carrie's father and how she was "young and lustful" but she never says that she didn't want to sleep with Carrie's father or that he raped her. The whole time that she was singing about what a travesty a woman's period is all I kept thinking was, "You clearly menstruated, too, if you had a child! You clearly had sex! Stop being a hypocrite!" I think it's also safe to say that I was taking to mother's view on "the sins of being a woman" a little too much to heart.<br />
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Now for the bullying. We all know that bullying is bad and that we should all just be nice to one another. The Golden Rule: Do Unto Others as You Would Have Them Do Unto You (funny story -- until I was 21 I thought it was "Do Unto Others as They Do Unto You" -- <i>slight </i>difference in interpretation). Carrie does show us the error in bullying others, but the message I got was, "Don't bully because then you'll die." Also, there was one male character in the play who was clearly gay, but not out. He did not act flamboyant or anything, but he would comment on how his male friends looked good in a tux or jokingly say that he should ask one of them to prom, and all of his male buddies would give him questioning looks and there would be awkward silence. The first time this happened in the show it was humourous. By the fifth time my friend and I thought, "So you're saying don't bully people because they're different and yet you won't stop making jokes at the gay guy's expense?" Bit of a mixed anti-bullying signal.<br />
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The next day, I was thinking about Carrie as I went for a run. I was practicing for a 5K Colour in Motion Run on Sunday. I would be doing the run with my friend, an actual runner who will be doing the Chicago Marathon this fall. I wouldn't call my runs "training", but I was trying to build up my stamina so that I had some hope of not holding her back too much during the 5K. All my life I have hated running not because I find it hard, but because I hate the way I look while I run. Throughout most of my childhood I have battled low self-esteem. I have always blamed the South and my beach-community home for this low opinion of myself because nearly all the girls in my school were size 2-4 and wore bikinis whereas I have always been in the double digits and felt more confident in tankinis or, even better, with a t-shirt over my bathing suit. Only in recent years have I stopped calling myself "fat" and it wasn't until college that I actually began to look at myself and go, "Okay, I don't look <i>too</i> bad." (And last year I bought my first bikini! <i>Say whattt?</i>) <br />
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As I was running I was thinking about Carrie and the bullying she endured. I wondered why, when the girls laughed at Carrie in the locker room, I had empathized with her. I have never been the victim of bullying. In grade school I always felt felt and like kids would make fun of me, but no one did. One boy in middle school called me a sheep once (because I was round and had yellow-white hair), but even at the time I remember thinking that he was just trying to get a rise out of me and that calling me a sheep was pretty dumb (hippo would have been much more insulting -- or whale!).<br />
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I turned a corner on the beach and continued jogging along the lake shore. Ahead of me, seven teenagers were gathered in the middle of the sidewalk. A few of them turned and saw me coming and motioned to their friends. Immediately I felt my adolescent insecurity well-up. "They're going to make fun of me," I thought, "mock the non-skinny girl at her feeble running attempt." Naturally, I was right. Just as I passed the group of teens I saw two girls smirk at the boys and start an exaggerated lopping run behind me. I thought about Carrie and fantasized throwing the group into the lake with my mind powers. Almost as a gut reaction I spun around, flicked the girls off, and said, "Fuck you." The girls' jaws dropped and they stopped dead in their tracks. I continued my jog and noticed a group of adults looking at me in awe -- most likely the parents of the teens wondering why this random person just flicked off their children.<br />
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Feeling like the "weirdo" can make you do strange things. You can suddenly go mind-power crazy at your senior prom or you can shout profanity at a group of children who may or may not have been poking fun at you. Having that immediate "fuck you" reaction towards some dumbass teenagers certainly took me by surprise and I wondered if I would feel <i>this</i> self-conscious during the 5K on Sunday.<br />
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It turns out the sudden self-esteem drop was just that -- sudden. I jogged the 5K by myself (my friend is also about a foot taller than me so a light run for her is like a jogging giraffe), but instead of my typical anxieties while running ("Oh god, I am going so slow. Does this even count as a jog? How ridiculous do I look? Why are my thighs so big??) I actually enjoyed myself. I kept up a steady jog for at least 4 of the 5 kilometers and finished the race in 33 minutes -- 5 minutes faster than all of my practice runs! I felt accomplished, fit, colourful (you know, because they throw coloured powder at you during the run), and relieved. I had just run with about 1,000 people and did not let my insecurities get to me. Had I let my usual self conscious feelings take over I probably would have walked the entire 5 kilometers. If only Carrie could have been so lucky!<br />
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Before and After the 5K Colour in Motion Run.</div>
Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-37862734029193952732014-05-10T09:37:00.000-07:002014-05-13T10:38:32.446-07:00It's a Dan Brown WorldAs a nonfiction writer, I am glad that the crazies of the world (and especially the CTA) seem to be attracted to me. They provide me with excellent writing material and guarantee that my train commutes are rarely boring. Recently, I haven't met any notable crazies except a woman on the CTA who kept shouting that I was "the whore of the CTA" and "the whore of the airport." This was at 8 in the morning and I was too dumbfounded and jet-lagged (I had just returned from Ireland two days previous) to do anything but sit there and ignore her. We were the only two in the train car for about three stops. As soon as the typical morning rush began to bombard the train she turned her shouts elsewhere.<br />
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This week, however, I had a much more dedicated crazy. I was on my usual 8:06 a.m. train, which, I have noticed, seems to attract more crazies and angry people than the 8:09 train (the "you're a whore" woman was on the 8:06) -- I guess those three extra minutes of sleep really help! I was able to snag a corner seat. These seats are coveted on the new CTA trains where all seats face the aisle. If you're on a corner then you can avoid being sandwiched in by your book-ending neighbours and it also gives you a little nook to tuck away anything you may be carrying.<br />
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I claimed my corner seat, put my tote bag in the nook and began reading a new book a friend lent me. It took only four stops for the train to become jam-packed and a petite woman with a Starbucks cup squeezed onto the seat next to me. Normally I am so engrossed in a book on the train that I am oblivious to anything going on around me. What drew my attention away this morning, however, was the constant turning of the woman with the Starbucks cup. Every minute I would see her head turn and look at me. She did this enough times that I went from self conscious to annoyed very quickly. I then realized that she was talking, but it was at a level where you couldn't tell if it was to herself or to someone near her. Turning my head slightly - the perfect angle of being able to look at her without <i>looking</i> like I was looking at her - I saw that she had her iPhone in one hand and her ear-buds connected to the iPhone. "Ah," I thought, "she is talking to someone on the phone."<br />
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I went back to my book, but something about the woman's conversation kept drawing me away. I couldn't understand anything she was saying, but I was curious if she was actually talking to someone or not. She would say a few sentences and then stop, wait a few seconds, and then start talking again, but it wasn't the normal stop-and-go you'd except from a two-person conversation. Finally, I took a peek at the phone in her hands. There was nothing on the screen saying that someone else was on the line. "Here we go," I thought. The woman then dialed a number from her Contacts and waited for it to connect. The number was labeled "Signature, Inc." and was given the designation of "Home." I wondered if this woman was so dedicated to her job that she intentionally labeled it as her "Home" or if she just did not know how to work her iPhone. She waited for the call to connect and when it did she put her phone up to her ear even though her earphones were still in her ears and attached to her phone (for those of you that don't know, this means she could keep the phone on her lap and talk through the speaker on her headphones). Now I knew things were about to get interesting.<br />
<br />
"Hey, hey -- it's me," she began, "yeah, I'm on my way down now, I'm on the train. Yeah look -- I talked to the detectives and the FBI and they're just not gonna do a thing. Not a damn thing." She had my full attention. People talking to phantoms on the phone usually say some interesting things, but the ones who bring up detectives or the FBI are even better. "It's that church, you know," she continued, "no one is gonna do a goddamn thing against that church. That's why I'm callin' the State's Attorney. The city of Chicago knows. <i>Oh they know</i>. And they're not gonna do a goddamn thing. They said two letters, two words, and one goddamn thing," She kept repeating this line a lot: two letters, two words, one goddamn _______. I could never completely understand that last word, but each time I thought I heard "game," "pagan," or "thing."<br />
<br />
As I eavesdropped, I realized that I hadn't turned a page in my book for a while. It was still open in my hands and people were either going to think I was the world's slowest reader or, my real concern, this woman would realize I was listening to her. She was still glancing over at me from time to time so she was obviously paranoid. I put my book away, pulled out my phone, and began texting what was happening to my roommate. The woman continued to get angrier and louder on the phone: "Because I'm the next target. And no fucking, goddamn way am I going to let someone make me The Target and get away with it. They are endangering lives and no one cares. Not the city of Chicago or the FBI. They think they can just take lives and take mine and not have to pay. No goddamn way. NO GODDAMN WAY. They said -- they said to me two letters, two words, one goddamn thing. Yeah, you know it. Fuckin' church, fucking satanic rituals. Coming in here and taking people's live. I'm not gonna let them. Chicago may be looking the other way, but ain't no one gonna come and make me The Target and not get something from me. NO GODDAMN WAY."<br />
<br />
From this point, the woman's conversation began to repeat. I was intrigued by what was going on and wanted to learn more, but all I could piece together was that a church in Chicago is performing satanic rituals on their parishioners, the parishioners are dying from these rituals, the city of Chicago is aware this is going on, but choosing to turn a blind eye, and since this woman is The Target, no one wants to help her. I wondered if she had read any Dan Brown novels lately.<br />
<br />
I took another look at her phone. Apparently the call had connected at some point and although she had been talking for about ten minutes, the call time said she had been connected for less than two minutes. I also noticed that Signature, Inc. was an 800 number.<br />
<br />
The train finally went underground and the woman got off the phone. She continued to talk angrily to herself about the church and how she had all the evidence that would bring them down. She stated, to no one in particular, that she had a video that would prove everything. She pulled up the video on her phone and, being the creeper that I apparently am, I watched it over her shoulder. The video was of a pair of feet, wearing black sneakers, and walking on carpet. The camera did not move above the ankles and trailed these feet for several seconds until the feet reached tile. At this point the feet moved out of the frame into blinding light and the camera was lifted and moved slowly across a wall of mailboxes. I noticed the woman's current footwear (black sneakers) and gathered that she had videoed her own feet walking down the hallway of her apartment building, into a tiled foyer (hence the bright light probably coming from the front door of the building), and the mailboxes were the ones for the apartment building.<br />
<br />
As the train passed through the dark tunnels I was able to get a look at the woman's face. I recognized her immediately as the same woman who, a few weeks previous, had told everyone on the train that we were going to die because the train conductor was new and didn't know how to drive. She said this after the train knocked everyone around a bit at the spot where it <i>always knocks everyone around a bit</i>. I remembered thinking, "Give it a rest woman! Clearly you don't take the train that often if you think a little jolting is the conductor's fault." Now, seeing her again, that previous morning and her shouts made much more sense. I also realized that she <i>was</i> a regular commuter and that our paths will probably cross again.<br />
<br />
As we passed through the Loop, most of the morning commute crowd had dispersed and there were about seven other people milling about on my side of the train car. (Some of you may be thinking, "How could all of this possibly take place in one morning commute?? How long are you on the train?" I am on the train for 45 minutes. Just enough time to see most Crazy Train Events from start to finish! Lucky me!) The woman was still very agitated and said, "No one believes me. No one <i>fucking</i> believe me. These goddamn motherfuckers are gonna get away with it -- well not if I have something to say about it! I'm gonna throw this coffee in someone's face and maybe <i>then</i> they'll fucking listen to me." At the mention of "coffee" all seven heads in the train perked up and turned towards me. The woman was holding her coffee in the hand nearest me. I decided that, although I like listening in on these crazy stories and enjoy relaying them to friends, I was not about to become an active member of this woman's delusional morning. I grabbed my tote bag and began to stand when the woman suddenly hopped up and walked to the train door. Everyone watched her out of the corner of their eye (or maybe they were watching for any sudden movements of her Starbucks cup). The woman continued to look over her shoulder at me so I stayed in my seat. I didn't want her thinking I was one of the church members sent to follow her.<br />
<br />
The train stopped and the doors opened. As soon as the doors closed again I grabbed my stuff. I stood and headed towards the door since mine was the next stop. I hopped over someone's stretched out legs and planted myself right in front of the exit. I looked out the windows and was suddenly met with the reflective stare of the woman's eyes. I thought she had gotten off at the last stop! Without thinking, I spun to look at her. She was standing right next to me, glaring and looking ready for a fight. I took two huge steps back, making sure to place the outstretched legs between myself and the lady. She kept her eyes on me and I nonchalantly adjusted the straps of my tote bag around my wrist, acting like my almost leap backwards had been a totally natural thing.<br />
<br />
Finally the train stopped again, the doors opened, and I let the woman exit before me. We both went up the escalator and while she stood on the right side I scurried up the left. I made it through the turnstile, up the second set of stairs and out of the station. I walked swiftly in the direction of the Sears Tower and waited until I was two blocks away before pulling out my phone to leave a friend a message about everything that had just happened. Before I began talking into my phone I looked behind me to make sure the woman and her Starbucks cup were no where in sight. Then I had to laugh at myself - who was the paranoid one now? Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-85674448090136233132014-02-17T14:00:00.003-08:002014-02-17T14:00:24.478-08:00Red Line in Real TimeThis is going to be an unconventional blog post. My best friend and I have a habit of creating long email chains between each other and respond to the chain multiple times a day. The other night, I was on my way to see a friend's improv troupe and I started to respond to the email chain to pass the time on the train. As I was responding, however, a man sat beside me and it was clear that he was one of the typical Red Line Crazies. I started typing a stream-of-consciousness narrative to my friend so that the man wouldn't talk to me (because he was definitely trying to and I was just not in the mood). I thought the email ended up being an entertaining and pretty accurate portrayal of a daily/nightly experience on the Red Line! (I took out the very first sentence since it was in response to what my friend had said in her email and I doubt she'd want me publicizing her work woes. Also, things in brackets are the edits I am making right now so that the whole thing makes a bit more sense.)<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Oh shit. So I'm on the train right now. I was starting to respond to [your email and] this man just sat next to me. I'm not looking at him, but he's got a ton of blankets tied around him, he's carrying a broom and drinking out of a 12 liter pop bottle. My music is a bit loud, but I think he was trying to talk to me about a yellow snow bus? Oh good. Now he's just coughing into the air and not covering his mouth. Omfg now he's talking about us being on the island of Argyle or "snow island." That must mean we're arriving at the Argyle stop. No, sir, I am not going to look at you. I'm just gonna keep typing and act like I do not hear him. Nooooo don't set the pop bottle behind my head!!! If that spills on me I will do unpleasant things to you with that broom. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Also, I stepped in a puddle and now my foot is soaked. Fuckkkkkk. Also, I have a discount code for 2 for 1 tonight -- crazy man, stop hacking up a lung beside my head!!! Omg moveeeeee. Wtf. He's talking again. Hmmm I'm a bit curious now bc I heard something about a fish at the Sears Tower. Okie, I'm gonna start typing what he's saying:</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Capture the picture. The picture is stone. Capture the picture. (Deep shit right there. Oh oh, now he's taking a drink again...[Now] he yelped and is staring out the window. Wtf is happening? Damn, he's stopped talking now. Right when I was about to start transcribing. WHOA SIR. YOUR HAND IS VERY CLOSE TO MY THIGH. REMOVE IT PLEASE. Now he's mumbling...I can't understand him. Speak up, please!) What is the phone? I don't want to say no more, not forever. I have my wallet. I only heard that though...Craigslist. He didn't say anything to me, let's see. Can you see that? Don't want to get no dance floors we gonna knock them against the door! We don't need 'em (he's acquired a southern accent all of a sudden). Ah. Pot. Pop? Pot. (Hmmm I just looked up. He doesn't look crazy? Sort of like an older, gaunt Ed Helms.) This is a four mile walk. Wilson to Southport. Then to Thorndale and then the snow on the beach BELMONT. (Belmont's the next stop btw.) Ohhhh the dog Tiga...(ummm. He's reading something [now], but I don't think [it is in] English. I'm hearing "pine cone trees" and something about an avalanche. Is the dog Tiga in [the avalanche]?)</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Okay. So I'm off the train now. Funny story -- when the man first got on and tried talking to me, I didn't respond [so] he started talking to a man who was sitting across from us. [That] man got off a few stops ago. Well it turns out [that man] DID NOT get off [the train]! He just moved to the next car to get away from the crazy guy bc he and I just passed each other at Belmont! This is why you should always wear your headphones on the train, even if you're not listening to music. You can easily ignore people and not look too rude!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I hope you enjoyed this. </i>Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-40534746048390801802014-01-29T19:32:00.001-08:002014-01-31T07:29:57.151-08:00#Snowpocalypse (Because Whatelse is There to Write About?)<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
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I am part of a storytelling group in Chicago. We perform once a month and share prepared personal essays on a stage at a bar (not as sketch as it sounds; it's very bohemian!). I wrote this piece (it's still rough) for next month's performance so I thought I would share it here:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
#Snowpocalypse</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br />
When I was little and growing up on
a tropical island off the coast of Georgia, I used to dream about snow. Every
Christmas, as the thermometers inched painfully slowly towards the 30 degree
mark, I would think, “Yes. This is it. Snow! It’s going to snow!” and every year
I was inevitably disappointed and had to make due with building creatures out
of cold sand instead of wonderful, fluffy snow. Luckily, I made up for my lost
snow days by moving to the Snow Belt of Michigan for college and then moving to
Chicago. I have since made many a snowman, the traditional
I’m-not-a-mature-adult snow penis, snow angels, and enjoyed lots of sledding,
slipping, and sliding. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
This winter has been one of the
coldest winters in recent history. Many areas of the Midwest and New England
hit record low subzero temperatures in January. Schools closed, jobs told
employees not to come to work, and frostbite advisories were plastered
everywhere. The South also experienced a bit harsher winter than they were used
to. Instead of the typical one-week per year of 30 degree temperatures,
suddenly southerners were experiencing a week and a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">half</i> of freezing temperatures. Sheets of ice formed on cars, there
was a need to use the words “salt” and “truck” in the same sentence, and some schools
also shutdown…for 40 degree weather.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Okay, okay, I will cut the South
some slack. When “cold” to you is 60 degrees then I can see not wanting to go
to school in 40 degree weather. I mean, I went to a high school in Brunswick,
Georgia that was laid out like a college campus so we had to walk outside to
get from one class to the next and we still had to go to school when the
temperature dropped to a surprising 20 degrees sometimes, but maybe the
students nowadays have thinner skin. Or maybe parents now care if their children drop dead
of hypothermia. Who knows! The point is, even though in <i>my</i> day we still went to school when it was below freezing, I can understand that 40 degrees feels like 5
degrees to someone who doesn’t have boots and instead has to wear toe-socks and
flipflops in the winter (a style that I totally embraced back in high school).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Yesterday, my Facebook feed began to
blow-up with talks of snow from my Georgia friends. Friends from South
Carolina, Alabama, and Florida commented that they were stocking up on Taco
Bell, pop, and chocolate to see their way through the coming snowstorm. Others
wished everyone a safe drive to and from work in such conditions. One status in
particular caught my eye: “Attention all [Georgia State University] students!
Campus will close as of 1 p.m. due to severe weather conditions. Go stock up on
bread, cheese, and head home NOW!” I asked my friend what the “severe weather”
conditions were. His response: “There’s a chance of snow flurries.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Snow flurries…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">snow FLURRIES?!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
I need to be more sympathetic. I
need to remember what it was like to live in the South having never experienced
a Michigan blizzard, driving through blinding snow in Indiana, or walking over
solid sheets of ice after freezing rain both melted and froze the mounds of
snow around my Chicago apartment. I’m trying to remember that many of my
southern friends have never even driven on ice before. They think layering is
putting on a long-sleeved <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> a
short-sleeved shirt at the same time. I doubt there’s even a snowplow within a
100 mile radius of my home town! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
I try to remember when I was new to
the snow. When I was that crazy girl running around Kalamazoo College’s campus
and asking my roommate to take pictures of me with my mouth wide-open, head
tilted straight back, and tongue collecting as many snowflakes as I could. I
remember refusing to walk with my Midwestern friends in the winter because they
walked like normal people while I shuffled like a crippled penguin. I remember
spinning out my first time on an unplowed road and yelling at my car to just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">please just stop!</i> I remember the time I poured
Morton salt on the steps of my house senior year because I thought that’s what
everyone meant by “salting.” I, too, was a snow-virgin once!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
And then I see Facebook posts about “My
windshield wipers are frozen. I can’t go to work?!,” “Shame on the governor for
not calling a state of emergency!” and hastags of “snowpocalypse” and
“snowday2014neverforget.” The Starbucks on my island closed at 3 p.m. because
of the cold. People are posting prayers and quotes from the Bible, saying that
they all need to stick together to get through this harrowing time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
IT IS TWO INCHES OF SNOW. STATE OF
GEORGIA, CALM THE FUCK DOWN.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Also, can we please all remember
the time in 2011 when Atlanta really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did</i>
have a snow storm? There was about two feet of snow covering the whole city.
For Chicago that’s like, “Two feet sucks, but whatever. We can still go about
our day,” but two feet in Atlanta is actually something to talk about. The city
only has four snowplows and those all had to go to the airport. So yes, Atlanta
is no stranger to snow that halts the entire city, but is this now going to
happen <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">every </i>time is snows? My mother
works for a college on the coast of Georgia – they closed because the "roads may be icy." My boyfriend lives
outside of Savannah – his work also told him not to come into work. Even the National Parks
closed!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Listen-up, fellow Georgians and
southerners, I am here to tell you that snow is not the enemy. Snow is not
there to kill you or do you any real harm. Snow is basically rain that’s
decided to solidify and stick around for a while. Yes, it’s cold as fuck (I
know a “fuck” can’t be cold, but stick your bare foot into a pile of snow
sometime and you’ll learn just how accurate of a description “cold as fuck” is)
and it’s slippery and can cause some serious damage when your car spins out or
you fall asleep in it or there’s an avalanche, but that’s a lot of snow. A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lot</i> of snow. Not 2 bloody inches.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
And let’s take the moment to talk about
the actual weather-related danger that poses a threat to the South,
specifically the coastal regions: hurricanes. As I said before, snow is not
there to kill you, but hurricanes kind of are. Hurricanes are board-up-the-windows-and-get-the-hell-out-of-dodge worthy. They come with winds so strong
that they can send a regular flimsy McDonald’s straw straight through your
hand. They come with flooding, which really sucks for the coastal regions, where people
have destroyed the marshlands to build McMansions (i.e. you covered up the
natural sponge that could have saved you from a flood, but now you risk losing
that boring, bland house you built -- good job!). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Hurricanes come in categories,
everyone knows that: 1-5, least damaging to incredibly dangerous. I can
remember evacuating for a hurricane once: Hurricane Floyd. He was a 4. I would
say about 40% of my island left for Floyd. Some people boarded up their
windows, covered them with packing-tape Xs, and moved valuables off the ground.
Those of us who left went inland. As per usual, the hurricane hit the Gulf
Stream and, instead of slamming into the Georgia islands like it was supposed
to, it careened into South Carolina. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
My point is, there was no real
urgency to the hurricane. Some of us (mostly old people and people with kids)
took a little road trip inland with minimal preparations to our homes and then
we came back. Since Floyd, my family has never evacuated again. The last
hurricane to come that close was Charley. I was working for the National Park
Service at the time, a small settlement that is now archeological ruins on St. Simons Island. Charley
was also a 4. Did we evacuate? Nope. Did my National Park flood? Oh yeah. Quite
extensively. Did we still have to come to work? Yep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
And yet, this winter, in fact as I am typing this piece, the park is
closed...for 30 degree weather. My mother also told me that they called in the
National Guard in Atlanta. That's right. Chicago gets -15 degree weather that "feels like" -40 and we get what? A snow day? Or at least those of us with very nice bosses did. Atlanta gets less than 1/4 of a foot of snow and they get the bloody cavalry. I know a guy who goes to Georgia Tech who spent 12
hours trapped in his car before abandoning it on I-75 and just walking home.
Some students even slept overnight on their school bus because the traffic was in such a gridlock. Some kids even spent the night in their elementary school because of the snow!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
State of Georgia and just the South in general, get your shit together. You're embarrassing yourself.<br />
<br />
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Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-21719796397440889662014-01-07T12:09:00.002-08:002014-01-07T12:09:56.417-08:00ChiberiaGreetings from Chiberia! This is the new name/hashtag for the weather that has currently consumed Chicago. There's a lot of snow, but not quite enough to officially earn the "Snowpocalypse 2.0" title (which, if you could see how much snow is out there right now, then that is really saying something about Snowpocalypse 1.0!). Chiberia is a pretty apt description, however.<br />
<br />
It is cold. Excuse my language, but it is really <i>fucking</i> cold out there. I have been checking my weather app nearly every hour for the past two days and it hasn't displayed a double-digit positive number since Sunday around 1:00 p.m. Currently it is one degrees Fahrenheit (it was zero degrees an hour ago so we're getting warmer - yay!) and "feels like" -15. Yesterday, my roommate and I joined all the other Chicagoans in performing the Boiling Water Experiment. I filled up a teakettle with water, waited until it started to boil, and then Molly and I went outside and poured the boiling water into the snow. You can really pour the water anywhere because the purpose of the experiment is watching the water immediately turn to snow/steam. It's pretty cool! A lot of people are burning themselves because they are taking pots of boiling water and tossing it in the air, which inevitably kicks some of the water back onto your skin. Molly and I were much smarter than that (although I did accidentally sink my foot ankle-deep in snow so that wasn't too fun).<br />
<br />
Besides that, there is really not too much to say about Chiberia. The heat is my apartment is practically non-existent so as I type this post my windows are covered with towels to stop the cold air from seeping through (there's also frost on the <i>inside</i> of the windows...thank you to my landlord, Steve Bojic -- that's his real name!). I am wearing two hoodies and am snuggled under three blankets. It's also a Tuesday and it is the second day my office has been closed due to the weather. This was a wise decision because many of my coworkers live in the suburbs and last night the Metra trains suddenly cancelled all of their departures during the evening commuting hours. The school district has also been closed for a second day in a row and there are stories all over the news and Facebook of people being stranded in the airports and train depots because nothing is coming in or out of Chicago.<br />
<br />
On Sunday I worked at Heartbeat Theatre. We are in the middle of a 3-week long story festival that we host every year and it is safe to say that this is a crazy time. From 3:00-10:00 p.m. Thursday - Sunday we have a different Chicago storytelling group/solo artist performing at either our theatre or at the Kentwood (from my Are You Kidnapping My Husband story). Snow had been pouring down on Chicago since Saturday afternoon. I was manning the box office and most of the calls I was receiving were, "Are you still having shows today?" The roads were awful and the Front of House (FOH) Manager later told me that we should have cancelled, but, as usual, we did not and the shows went on!<br />
<br />
Around 1:30 p.m. the girl who was the shuttle driver for the day came to the theatre and reported that the parking lot had not been plowed. She had also gotten stuck numerous times on her journey to and from the theatre. "I'm sorry," she said to the FOH, " I can't drive in this. I just can't. I don't feel safe." I had just caused a tremendous paper jam in the ticket-printer so I immediately raised my hand, "I'll do it! You do box office and I'll shuttle!"<br />
<br />
Luckily and sadly, I do not have any fun stories from driving the shuttle around in nearly two feet of snow. The lot was eventually plowed, but the snow never stopped falling. The plows could hardly keep up with the rate at which the snow was piling up. The van spun out and got stuck numerous times, but each time we persevered. I have since named the van Shackleton because of his impressive barreling-through-snow capabilities. I sat in the van for four hours and only shuttled two people. The last person and I bonded for about 15 minutes after I picked her up from the last show of the night and we sat behind two cars that were stuck: one was trapped in a parking space they were trying to pullout of and the other was stuck <i>waiting</i> for that parking place. Finally, the car directly in front of Shackleton moved up enough so that I could pull into an unplowed alley. Shackleton and I stopped and started numerous times as we created a path for the three other cars that decided to follow our lead down the alley and eventually we did make it to the next road. Shockingly, the middle seat of the van did not flip up once!<br />
<br />
So that's all from Chiberia folks. Nothing too exciting, but that's mostly because none of us want to venture outside. My neighbours are trying to venture out, however. I keep hearing their cars squealing against the snow and ice in our alleyway. Last night, a car did this for forty minutes before they were finally able to make it out of the alleyway. Did I mention that not a single snowplow has graced our alleyway all winter? My landlord says, "The city will do it," but I don't see why they would when the alleyway is private property and Mayor Emmanuel has already cut the budget for snowplows this year. I made the mistake of asking my landlord if a plow would ever come through our alley or if we would just have to wait until the snow melts naturally (currently, I cannot get my car out of my parking space and Molly cannot get hers in). My landlord responded by calling me in hysterics about how I could possibly expect <i>him</i> to put a plow on the front of his car. Needless to say, that was not at all what I meant and clearly Chiberia is getting the best of everyone's sanity.<br />
<br />
Stay warm!<br />
<br />
<br />Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-50045830579776839662013-12-08T19:21:00.001-08:002013-12-08T19:21:57.049-08:00Every Day I'm Shuttlin'As many of you know, one of my jobs is as a shuttle driver for Heartbeat Theatre. Recently, I have been lucky enough to start working as a House Manager and Box Office Associate, but, as one of only three people who passed the insurance test to drive the shuttle, I am still primarily a shuttle driver. This job typically consists of driving the shuttle (which is actually just a minivan so none of us had to get a commercial drivers license) from Heartbeat Theatre to a parking lot about six blocks away. Once there, the shuttle driver sits in the van anywhere from an hour to an hour and a half. Your job is to wait until a patron parks in the lot and then you drive them to Heartbeat (or one of the other two theaters in the Rogers Park neighbourhood that we help out). During the performance the shuttle driver hangs out inside Heartbeat Theatre and once the show is over you drive the patrons back to the lot.<br />
<br />
Pretty simple, right? You're probably thinking, "How do you not get bored with the same routine night after night?" The answer is: yes, there are nights when I am so bored with shuttle driving that I literally just stare at my cellphone and watch the minutes go by. Back when the sun stayed up until 8pm I would sit in the van and read. I use some of my shifts to catch up on phone calls from the week and recently I have started bringing my laptop and working on various personal essays. However, there are those nights when the act of shuttle driving is more active than it should be...<br />
<br />
<b>Blame It on the Maintenance</b><br />
<br />
The shuttle van is old. For the past year I have been telling people that the van is from the 90s, but I recently learned that that was incorrect (which I will get to later). The back door has a button on the handle that passengers inside the van must press before they can pull the door shut. This constantly confuses people and they will tug with all their might at the door, totally disregarding me in the front seat saying, "You have to push the button. No -- the button. It won't release until you -- oh I'll just do it." Then there are those who press the button and, because the parking lot is not a flat surface, the door starts to slide shut on its own. Most people will turn to me triumphantly and beam as the door takes about two minutes to slide shut. When the patron realizes the light inside the van is still on they will look from the door, to the light, to me like a dejected puppy. I get out, open and shut the door, and then explain that the van is too old and was not made during the time of automatic doors.<br />
<br />
The middle seat in the van has also given each shuttle driver a fun experience from time to time. I believe the minivans that are created now have seats that fold down and create a flat surface. The shuttle van, however, still has good ol' seats that click into tracks on the van floor. When you want to take the seats out you have to somehow lift, pull, and slide the seats through the hatchback. Putting them back in is equally as complicated and tedious and sometimes you think the seats are securely in their track, but they're not. No worries, though! The shuttle driver will realize this error while driving patrons around. If only one person is sitting in the middle seat and is sitting on the end of the seat rather than in the middle -- well then that person is in for a treat when the van hits even the most minor of bumps and WHOOPS! The seat has flipped sideways, trapping the more-often-than-not very old person between the now perpendicular seat and one of the van doors. This also happens when someone is trying to slide out of the van and the flipping seat acts almost like a springboard and launches the person out. I now keep one hand pressed down on the seat when people slide out so that it happens less often. There's sadly nothing I can do when the seat flips while I am actively driving. Usually I just say, "Welcome to nonprofit theatre!" <br />
<br />
Perhaps the biggest maintenance issue of all has been the windshield wipers. Last December, I drove the van from Heartbeat to the lot for a special event we were having that night (an interactive stage reading). The performance was sold-out and we even offered dinner service an hour and a half before the show. It was snowing, but the kind of snow that actually sticks to your windshield, so as I drove up Morse Avenue I turned on the wipers. It was obvious that the wipers were on their last legs because they dragged heavily across the glass and made an obnoxious squeak as they moved, but, like I said, Heartbeat is a nonprofit theatre so you basically have to use something until you literally cannot use it anymore (or, rather, you cannot gaffe/duct tape it anymore).<br />
<br />
I was halfway between the theatre and the lot when the windshield wiper on the driver's side flew off. One moment is was there and the next it was just gone. I immediately pulled over and retrieved the wiper from the road. The black blade had snapped clean off, while the metal rod that keeps the blade in place was still attached to the van. I called the theatre, explained what happened, and was at a loss as to what I should do. Water was collecting pretty significantly on the windshield and the metal bar was bent so much that I didn't think the blade could snap back into place. "Just make it work," the Box Office Manager told me. "Just pick up the people in the lot, come back here and we will gaffe tape it."<br />
<br />
Now, I will admit that this is the one time I have ever been unhappy with Heartbeat Theatre. I mean, there I was, driving a van that would be full of people very soon, it was snowing, the sun was setting, I was holding a windshield wiper in my hands, and the solution was to tape it back on?<br />
<br />
I arrived at the lot and people immediately began walking towards the van. I got out, holding the blade in the air. "Can anyone fix this?" I asked. "It flew off on Morse and I don't know how to get it back on." One of our regular patrons helped me snap the blade back onto the metal bar, but warned that it was in no way a permanent fix. I told him that the Box Office Manager would be meeting me outside with some tape to secure the blade into place. He gave me an incredulous look. I smiled. "Welcome to nonprofit theatre!" <br />
<br />
Flash forward to October of this year -- ten months after the windshield wiper blade flew off on Morse Avenue. Now, both blades have been gaffe taped onto the van. The blade on the driver's side has started to bend dramatically and it leaves 1.5 inch-wide streaks of water in places where the blade no longer touches the windshield. The other blade is missing a piece of rubber and makes an excruciating metal-scraping-glass sound as it moves pathetically across the windshield. All three shuttle drivers have expressed concern over the dilapidated wipers, but to no avail. "We don't have the money," is the main explanation we are given. While this excuse is annoying and made most of us think to ourselves, "Well then you drive the van when it's dark and raining and tell us how safe <i>you</i> feel," it did not really upset me until one night when it began to pour.<br />
<br />
It was one of the last days of sold-out show. I had shuttled so many people to and from the lot and the theatre that I knew it was going to take at least two trips to get everyone back to their parked cars (and there was a second evening performance that night). My first group squeezed in and as I pulled away from the theatre it was immediately clear that the wipers had finally given up on the van. The wiper in front of the driver (me) only cleared away water at the very top and bottom of the windshield. The other one took water off in random patches and continued to damage everyone's eardrum with its piercing scrape. The rain fell harder and harder. After just two blocks I apologized to everyone, pulled over at a gas station and wiped the windshield off with my sleeve.<br />
<br />
As the van continued down the road I kept my eyes glued to the windshield. I have always known that windshield wipers are useful because they enable you to see more clearly in the rain and snow, but never before had I realized how detrimental they are to <i>actually</i> being able to see. In my mind I always thought, "Water is clear. You can probably see through it well enough." I was wrong - so so <i>so</i> wrong. Lights and shapes blended into each other and the entire van was eerily silent as all the passengers realized just how little I could see. I kept my eyes peeled for pedestrians who may decide to cross the street without regard for moving cars (which happens often). In the six blocks between the theatre and the lot I pulled over three times to clear the windshield with my sleeve. There was one narrow road that I had driven on so many times that day that I drove down it through pure memory.<br />
<br />
When I finally reached the lot, you could physically feel the tension in the van release. Everyone thanked me profusely and two couples got out to inspect the windshield wipers. A young man removed the driver's side windshield and replaced it with the noisy one -- it made a horrible sound, but at least it cleared <i>some </i>water off. He handed me $10 and his girlfriend told me that it wasn't safe for me to have to drive like that. Another man handed me $20 and said, "Get new windshield wiper blades." I called the theatre from the lot, explained the situation and said that we were now down to one blade and a man gave us $20 to get new ones. There was no excuse now. During the second show that night I drove to Auto Zone with the man's donation and the company credit card. I bought new wiper blades and found, to my utter disbelief, that the van was actually a 2000. Who knew! (Although this does mean it is almost fourteen years old now...)<br />
<br />
<b>Blame It on the Passengers</b><br />
<br />
Again, you would think that driving a minivan in between a theatre and a parking lot that is only six blocks away would leave little room for people to demonstrate any sort of eccentricities, but sometimes that seven minute car ride can feel like a half hour.<br />
<br />
First of all, Heartbeat has children's shows during the day on Saturdays and Sundays. Sometimes, the kids who go to see these shows are not thrilled about life in general (this usually happens when the adult that is with them makes the child leave their Gameboy in the car) and they throw temper-tantrums during the entire ride. Then there are the kids who openly fight with the adults in the car, or bicker with their siblings and for some reason feel the need to drag me into the fight. <br />
<br />
My favourite child passenger, however, was a little boy who climbed into the backseat with his mother. I usually take a back alley to get out of the parking lot, but since it was under construction (due to an four foot wide hole in the ground -- an actual hole that went down about six feet) I had to take a right out of the lot, a right onto the next road, and then one more right after that. As I pulled onto the third street, the little boy sat very straight and narrowed his eyes at me in the rear-view mirror. <br />
<br />
"We just made a U-turn," he said. <br />
<br />
"Because we just made three rights? Yes, we did."<br />
<br />
His voice was stern. "I know where we are."<br />
<br />
"Yeah?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah. You just made three turns and now we're back on Clark..." He continued to stare at me.<br />
<br />
"Honey," his mother said, putting an arm around him, "I think she knows what she's doing."<br />
<br />
"I <i>know</i> where we are," he repeated.<br />
<br />
"We're headed to the theatre," I assured him. "It's all one-way streets so I have to make all those rights to turn around."<br />
<br />
"We're on Morse now," he said, still not breaking eye contact.<br />
<br />
"Yes. We are. You're very good."<br />
<br />
"I just want you to know that I know."<br />
<br />
My next group of paranoid passengers came about two weeks later. Two men pulled into the lot, parked, and got into the van. Since I was shuttling for both Heartbeat Theatre and another theatre in Rogers Park, Steinbeck Cabaret, I asked which show they were going to. Before either man could answer, a cellphone began to play the theme song from <i>The Twilight Zone</i>.<br />
<br />
"One moment," the taller of the two men said, "it's my wife. Hello?"<br />
<br />
His earpiece was turned up so high that I could hear everything his wife said. "There is no shuttle," she said. "There is <i>no</i> shuttle!" I looked around the parking lot to see if I could see another car. Every now and then an unobservant patron will park in the lot and immediately call the theatre to say that the shuttle is not there. Usually I will be looking at these people and waving at them while they talk on their phones, totally oblivious to the van that says "HEARTBEAT THEATRE" in giant red letters.<br />
<br />
"There is a shuttle," the husband responded.<br />
<br />
"What?" the wife snapped. "No there is not. What do you mean <i>there is a shuttle</i>?"<br />
<br />
"There is a shuttle."<br />
<br />
"Where?"<br />
<br />
"Right on the corner of Morse and Ravenswood. Just like the map said."<br />
<br />
"There is no shuttle."<br />
<br />
"What theatre are you going to?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Heartland," the shorter man responded. <br />
<br />
"Heartland?" there was no Heartland Theatre in Rogers Park, but there was a cafe by that name. "You mean the restaurant? You're going to go there before the show?"<br />
<br />
"No, we're going to the Heartland Theatre."<br />
<br />
"Hmmm...there's no theatre by that name. What's the show?" He gave the name of a show. I hadn't heard of it.<br />
<br />
"What's happening?" the wife demanded.<br />
<br />
"We're trying to figure out where we're going," the husband responded.<br />
<br />
"Where are you?!"<br />
<br />
"We're in the shuttle."<br />
<br />
"THERE IS NO SHUTTLE."<br />
<br />
"Honey, there is. We are in a van."<br />
<br />
"Hello!" I called. The wife didn't respond. "What do you mean you're in a van?" she asked.<br />
<br />
"Are you going to the Kentwood?" I asked. There is a third theatre in Rogers Park that Heartbeat sometimes shuttles for. Kentwood is not a typical theatre with a regular season, but instead just a theatre space that companies can rent. I was unaware that there was a show going on at Kentwood, but assumed that I had just not looked closely at the Shuttle Schedule, which normally lists all of the theaters we are driving for.<br />
<br />
"Yes!" the shorter man responded. "The Kentwood."<br />
<br />
"Huh. I didn't realize they had a show."<br />
<br />
"What did she say?" Miss Paranoid chirped. "She hasn't heard of the theatre?"<br />
<br />
"I've heard of it. I just wasn't aware that there was a show going on right now."<br />
<br />
"Do you drive there?" the husband asked.<br />
<br />
"Yes." I began to reverse out of my parking spot.<br />
<br />
"Where are you? Are you by the Metra tracks?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, dear, we are by the Metra tracks, on the northeast corner of Morse and Ravenswood. Just like the map said."<br />
<br />
"What kind of car are you in?"<br />
<br />
"It's...it's just a van. It's a shuttle."<br />
<br />
"I promise I am taking you to the theatre," I said.<br />
<br />
"See, honey? The nice young lady promised that she is taking us to the theatre."<br />
<br />
The wife was silent. "That's not funny," she said.<br />
<br />
We began driving down Morse. As we did, the wife asked for street-by-street updates of where we were. It was then that I realized she legitimately believed I was trying to kidnap or in someway harm her husband and his friend. The husband tried to joke around and say that we were suddenly entering Evanston or jumped onto Lake Shore Drive, but it was clear that the wife was having none of his tomfoolery. The shorter man kept handing me one dollar bills each time the wife snapped about wanting to know why they weren't at the theatre yet.<br />
<br />
When we finally arrived at Kentwood, two older women immediately walked to the van and greeted the men. They did not even glance at me. A young girl came out of the theatre and I rolled down the passenger window. She introduced herself as the House Manager. "So...who are you?" she asked. Finally all the puzzle pieces clicked into place.<br />
<br />
As I said before, Kentwood is not a regular theatre. Therefore, each time a show is put on at that space, it is an entirely new theatre troupe. Sometimes the theatre troupe contacts Heartbeat and asks for us to shuttle for them. They have to pay us for this service. The current theatre troupe at Kentwood did not know anything about the shuttle service and therefore did not pay for it. When the two couples researched the parking situation at Kentwood, they were directed to Heartbeat's shuttle site because Kentwood had not updated their website since their last show (which Heartbeat <i>did</i> shuttle for). Therefore, when the two women were dropped off at the theatre and mentioned the shuttle, the current theatre troupe must have told them that they did not offer that service. Then, when the wife called her husband and learned that he was in a van -- well it is easy to see why she freaked out. She knew there was not supposed to be any van and yet there he was, being driven around by some crazy young girl.<br />
<br />
The House Manager told me to refuse anyone else who showed up at the parking lot since they were not paying for the shuttle service. Luckily, no one else arrived for Kentwood and when I picked up the two couples they were talking excitedly about the show they had just seen. As the four passengers left the shuttle van, the shorter man gave me a few more dollars since he knew I did not have to pick them up and the wife of the taller man turned to me before she shut the door. "I am sorry I thought you were a kidnapper," she said in complete sincerity. "It happens to the best of us," I responded.<br />
<br />
So there you have it! Just a little taste of the surprisingly eventful world of a shuttle driver. I have left out other fun tidbits such as drunk people throwing glass bottles from third-story windows at the van, crazy people who try to come up to me in the parking lot and make conversation, patrons who thought I was actually a taxi, and a near-miss T-boning by a CTA bus. Needless to say, this job has given me a whole new appreciation for the people who make their living as a shuttle driver. Always remembers, dear readers: tip your shuttle driver! They have to put up with a lot of shit. <br />
<br />Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-25251109231920867712013-10-04T15:52:00.001-07:002013-10-04T15:57:33.353-07:00The CTA: A Travel Guide (Part I)<style>
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</style><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>The Chicago
Transit Authority. </b>Also known as the CTA, or, if you are talking about only the
train system, the El (for Elevated). The CTA comes in various coloured lines:
red, purple, brown, pink, green, yellow, blue, and orange. Like the plethora of
Chicago neighbourhoods, each line is unique in its route, service, people, and
reputation. Let’s go through each colour before beginning your CTA journey:
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">First, a small map to help you visualize:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><img alt="http://www.dreamtown.com/images/maps/cta-train-map.png" class="shrinkToFit decoded" height="400" src="http://www.dreamtown.com/images/maps/cta-train-map.png" width="350" /> </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Red Line: </b>If there is a “main line” in Chicago then this is
it. Spanning from the northern tip of the city – Howard – to the very end – 95<sup>th</sup>/Dan Ryan – this line runs straight through the center of Chicago (and is
one of the few lines that runs underground). One of two trains that operates
24/7 this line is possibly the most diverse line. You start at Howard (aka
Sketchville where there are signs in shop windows of a little child saying,
“Don’t shoot me. I want to grow up!”) and then travel south picking up
bohemians (Rogers Park), college students (Loyola), businesspeople (Fullerton,
Belmont), international transplants from Asia (Argyle, Chinatown/Cermack),
Yuppies (Bryn Mawr, Berwyn), drunk frat boys (Addison), tourists (Chicago thru
Jackson), and homeless people who just want somewhere to sit, sleep, and be
safe for a few hours. There are some people who deem this line one of the more
dangerous lines (because there are robberies and altercations sometimes, but come on –
we’re in a <i>city</i>) and avoid it after 5 p.m. However, those of us who
travel the Red Line every single day – and have, at one point in time, been on
the train between all the 24 hours of the day (it’s the fastest/cheapest way to
get home at 4 a.m.!) – we simply describe it as eclectic.</span><br />
</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Blue Line: </b>The other 24/7 train line of the CTA. Full of
college students and young families who do not really want to live in the
suburbs, but also cannot afford to live in the city. This line primarily stays
in the western half of the city except when it travels east to enter the Loop.
(The Loop is what the city center is called – i.e. downtown. It’s called the
“Loop” because all of the train lines meet there and <i>loop</i> around the downtown –
except the Red Line, which runs straight through.) This line is most known for taking people to and from
O’Hare, being 24/7, and, most recently, head-on,
unexplainable-it-must-have-been-an-equiptment-failure train crashes. </span><br />
</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Green Line: </b>This line has the worst reputation of all the
colours. It runs from Oak Park to Chicago’s Southside (not the geographic Southside
like Hyde Park and 95<sup>th</sup>/Dan Ryan, but the <i>bad</i> Southside that’s known
for lots of violence). Like the Red Line, most people do not enjoy riding this
train after dark and there is normally a separation between white people at the
front of the train and all other races at the back of the train. Clearly this
has nothing to do with segregation, but is instead fear-related (the closer one is to the conductor the safer they feel). I once walked
into the very last car of the Green Line to ride from Oak Park back to the Loop
and the people I was with stated, “Are you crazy?? We have to go to the front
where the conductor is!” Personally, I have never had a problem on the Green
Line, but then again I have never taken it south of the Loop. It is also the
one line where I have heard first person accounts of being mugged. This line is
as diverse as the Red Line, but the Southside aspect seems to make the general
public forget that it also travels to Oak Park (aka Yuppieville). </span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Yellow Line: </b>The Skokie Swift. This line takes passengers to a
from Skokie, a boring suburb most known for Orthodox Jews and a gigantic
outdoor mall. It was deemed “swift” because it picked up at the Howard stop
(end of the Red Line) and dropped off at the Dempster station without any stops
in between. The line has since gained two more stops (whoa!), but is still
known as The Skokie Swift. It is also only three to four train cars long, thus making it look like the "special train."</span><br />
</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Orange Line: </b>This is the Midway train. It takes passengers from
Midway Airport at the southern end of Chicago, travels north to the Loop, and
then heads southwest to a few of the neighbourhoods-that-are-almost-suburbs. From
what I have been able to tell, people mostly take this line to transfer to
another line or to go to Midway Airport. (Also, as a side note, for a train
whose primary purpose is going to and from the airport, it should copy the Blue
Line and be 24/7 because anyone who flies out right when Midway opens or comes
in super late has to either take a taxi or bus.)</span><br />
</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Pink Line: </b>Chicago’s newest El line. I honestly do not know much
about this line except that it takes people directly west like the Green and
Blue lines, but it stops much sooner than those two colours. I like to think
it’s main purpose is to take people to Pilsen, a neighbourhood of Chicago set
in the industrial area that is slowly becoming an artist-haven.</span><br />
</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Purple Line:</b> The line that runs from the tip of Evanston to the
Howard station. This line also runs “express” to the Loop during the morning and
late-afternoon rush hours. This is an amazing train if you catch the express
because it runs parallel to the Red Line, but skips about 14 stops. Deemed a
“safe” train because it is full of Evanstonites (i.e. business people,
Northwestern college students, and the generally wealthy/well-off). This train
is also one of cleanest and has the best air-conditioning in the summer.</span><br />
</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Brown Line: </b>Also known as “The White People Mover” and the “Whitey
Express.” This train travels through Chicago’s more affluent<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>neighbourhoods and, like the Purple Line, is
typically very clean, polished, and full of less weirdos. This train is perhaps
the slowest train, which is either due to all of the twist and turns it must
make or the fact that most of the passengers are AARP members (or a combination
of both). This train is sardine-packed during the morning and late-afternoon
rush hours (re: affluent), sparse on the weekend nights, and ends at an
inconvenient 1-2 a.m. </span><br />
</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Do’s and Don’t’s When Riding the CTA:</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Do</b> wear your headphones and sunglasses. This way people will
not talk to you. If they do, you can either a) respond accordingly or b) act
like you can’t hear them and are in your own little world. It is also an excellent way to eavesdrop on interesting conversations.</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Don’t</b> talk loudly on your phone, talk loudly to your friend,
or listen to loud music. This will cause other passengers to wish bad things
upon your person, possibly accost you, and maybe even smack you in the face
with their yoga mat (I may or may not have “accidentally” hit a man in the face
with my yoga mat when he was yelling into his phone to his “bitches” who didn’t
realize what a “fucking fine ass motherfucker” they were dealing with. Everyone
on the train glared at him -it was clear we were minutes away from tossing him
onto the electrified tracks - and sometimes you’ve just gotta hit these people
with a yoga mat. Namaste, asshole.)</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Do</b> bring a book. It’s going to be a long ride. (My every day 45 minute to an hour commute on the El has
caused me to become a reading fiend! I have gone through six books in
two months. I haven't done that since entering Summer Reading Programs
in grade school.)</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Don’t</b> freak out when you smell smoke. CTA trains catch on
fire more often then you’d expect and the conductor has a nifty little spray
bottle for leaning out the window and extinguishing these. Or you’ll have a fun
adventure of being ushered off the tracks by the fire department.</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Do</b> brace yourself when the train starts to move and starts to
stop. You do not want to be that person who topples over onto everyone else and
then acts surprise that the movement of the train would cause them to do that.
It’s embarrassing. </span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Don’t</b> be the jackass who takes up two to three seats to take
a nap. There’s a special place in Hell for those people.</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Do</b> wash your hands after riding the CTA. There are some
disgusting people on that train and possibly the source of the next worldwide pandemic. Disgusting acts witnessed on the train include but are not limited to:
puking, peeing, snot wiped on the poles, spitting (everywhere), and the
discarding of food. For a comparison of just how unsanitary the CTA is: I will
(and have) walked barefoot on the streets of Chicago, London, and Aberdeen, Scotland. I will <i>NEVER</i> go barefoot on
the CTA. Also, a friend contracted pinkeye from the CTA and I often get large
welts from some sort of bug who has clearly learned that the El is the Country
Buffet of succulent morsels. </span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Don’t</b> step onto a train before the other passengers have
disembarked. There is a special place in Hell for these people, too.</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Do</b> expect the CTA to run swiftly and smoothly whenever you
are not in a hurry and to stop frequently due to track maintenance, fires,
hooligans, and because the conductor just feels like it whenever you are
crunched for time.</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Don’t </b>play the Which Ball is the Cup Under? game. There are
people who make their livelihood from these games and you will not win. Ever.
The answer is: there is no ball. However, if you say that, then somehow the ball <i>will</i> magically appear. The real game you’re playing is: You Lose and the Ball
Man Wins. </span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>And finally...</i></span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Do</b> appreciate the CTA. Sure, it smells funny, people will preach to you, hit on you, pester you for money, and even try to sell you things, but all CTA riders should appreciate that the CTA even exists. No matter where you are in Chicago you are always at the most a two-block walk from a train or bus stop and, even with the recent increase in transit fares, Chicago has the cheapest public transportation system in the U.S. You can also travel several miles without having to do anything except get on and off a train or bus. Months ago I was driving in the car with my boyfriend and as he drove I immediately pulled out my iPhone to start playing a game. Bernardo* (I can't remember if I have ever given my boyfriend an alias on this blog so for now he will be dubbed Bernardo until I can remember what his original alias was) commented, "We can't talk? You immediately have to pull out your cellphone?" It was then that I realized how accustomed I had grown to the everyday equation: traveling = sitting and staring at your phone or reading a book. While this habit is a bit rude when riding in a car with another person, what a lucky way to pass time on your commute! Instead of sitting in traffic and having to pay attention to the other cars around you, CTA riders can mentally checkout and leave the hard-work to the train drivers.</span><br />
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In summary, the CTA is like a family: you've got your weirdos, your snobs, the smart ones, the high school dropouts, the hippies, the embarrassments, the ones you actually like and are friends with, and the crazy uncle who everyone is a bit leery around and generally tries to avoid, but in the end you've got to love them because they are always there (although they may not be terribly punctual) and, honestly, what other family do you have?</span>Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-28394200199737033382013-08-24T21:50:00.001-07:002013-08-24T22:00:59.099-07:00A Recap: The Good, The Bad, and A PromiseHello dear readers! Have I really not written a blog since May?? Man, has time flown by this summer! Although it is only August I feel like I am starting a completely new year in Chicago this month. Things have been quite hectic during the warmer months of Chicago. Thankfully, as Fall approaches I believe that the chaos of my own life will cool with the temperature: I have moved to a new apartment, fully settled into all of my jobs, gained some new responsibilities, and, in general, feel more relaxed and confident than I have in months. I know this sounds cheesy, but I will include a quick recap of the highlights from the past four months and hopefully you will understand why I have not written a single word since May:<br />
<br />
<b>Grad School: To Go or Not to Go, That is the Ever Looming Question</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Let's just get this section out of the way because this single...what should we call it? Event? Area? Anxiety-laden-organism-consuming-my-mind-and-body-like-a-flesh-eating-virus was the axis around which the rest of my life orbited and, at times, seemed spin out of control.<br />
<br />
Towards the end of March I was fortunate enough to be accepted into two graduate MFA programs: one at Columbia College in Chicago and the other at Georgia College and State University in Milledgeville, GA. Both programs were a tremendous honour to be accepted into especially for someone as young as I am. I was able to attend Columbia's Admitted Student Day and quickly learned that this was not the program for me. The students that I met were very into metaphysical writing and the class I sat in on was based on the "un-paragraph" (which, surprisingly, had nothing to do with Faulkner's <i style="font-weight: bold;">The Sound and the Fury</i>, which has that one chapter with absolutely no punctuation, indentation, or capitalization). I am a very traditional and realistic writer so right away I knew that this program was perhaps stretching the nonfiction genre further than I wanted to go, but I was also put off by the students' obsession with the faculty. The Creative Nonfiction MFA is only three years old and the faculty consists of three professors. One professor (the head of department) is a woman named Jenny Foster*. The students talked about how much they loved Jenny and her classes, how "cute" she looked while pregnant, and how they loved having brunch at her house. They talked about Jenny so much that I felt like Jan from <i>The Brady Bunch</i> when she exclaims, "Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!" All of this combined with the fact that Columbia was able to offer me a total of $0.00 in scholarship ultimately led me to decline their gracious invitation into the program.<br />
<br />
And then came GCSU. GCSU is one of the top Nonfiction MFA programs in the country. It is a wonderful liberal arts college that is located about an hour and a half south of Atlanta. I visited this campus and found it very charming, Kalamazoo College-like, and predictably Antebellum. I met with the director of the MFA program as well as a few current MFA students and knew that this program would be a great fit for me. Their writing followed a more traditional path and the Nonfiction Department encouraged collaboration with the Theatre Department. I was a bit nervous about transitioning from the thriving scene of Chicago to the small town of Milledgeville, which makes Brunswick, GA look like a metropolis, but I had high hopes that I would settle in nicely. GCSU also has a wonderful habit of funding as many students as possible and thus was the source of my stress for the past four months...<br />
<br />
At the same time that I was informed of my acceptance into GCSU I was also told that I was a strong candidate for the MFA program's Graduate Assistantship -- a position that came with a full tuition waiver <i>and</i> an attractive stipend. For one month I was given weekly email updates saying "you are still in the running" and "as soon as you move-up on the waitlist we will let you know!" Clearly, this began to take a toll on my nerves since my going to GCSU rested on landing this assistantship (because everyone knows an MFA degree is not a money making degree and even the director advised against paying for grad school). During this month I wrestled with desire to stay in Chicago and my feeling that grad school was the smarter and more responsible choice. I was also plagued by "Do I tell my jobs? Do I not tell my jobs? Will I be able to give the standard two weeks notice? Will I be letting them down?" When the final word came back that I would not be awarded an assistantship because all the other people who were the top picks had said 'yes' I was both devastated and relieved. Obviously I was sad to not be "good enough" to have been offered the assistantship right away, but I was also happy to not have to leave Chicago and the life I have built here quite yet.<br />
<br />
However, the director of the program said he "still really wanted [me] to join [the] MFA program" and set himself on a mission to find an assistantship in another department for me. I applied to a few and the director would often write to his colleagues about me, singing my praises, and copy me on the emails. One of these colleagues was the advisor to the school's newspaper, The Colonnade. The assistantship with The Colonnade sounded very promising and a position that was right up my alley! The advisor to The Colonnade emailed me to thank me for my resume and cover letter and said she would begin her "search in earnest" the following week. That was at the beginning of April. I never heard from this woman again even though I followed up with her multiple times.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, by mid-July the process of applying for assistantships, constantly being told they were already filled but the vacancy posting had mistakenly been left up (this happened with <i>five</i> assistantships), being ignored by the Colonnade woman, and just an overwhelming feeling of not being good enough began to take a serious toll on me. I was irritable, depressed, quarrelsome with anyone close to me (i.e. parents and boyfriend), and had a general feeling of "my life is going nowhere!" I became so stressed that I am quite sure I took a year or two off my life. The MFA director was incredibly encouraging and always repeating, "Don't give up! There's still time (classes began on August 19th)! We want you here!" (Although, the thought 'Then why was I fourth on the Graduate Assistantship waitlist?' constantly gnawed at me.)<br />
<br />
On August 1st I was officially offered an assistantship with the Nonprofit program that would begin January 1st. The MFA director said that his department normally does not allow students to begin mid-year, but he was willing to make an exception for me. Given everything I had just gone through and the extreme emotional/mental toll I had been feeling, I decided to say 'thanks, but no thanks.' Everything just felt too 'up in the air' and I was a little tired of feeling like the runner-up. The director said that he understood and deferred my acceptance until Fall 2014, when I will hopefully be more prepared for the assistantship search. Until then, I am extremely happy, calm, and relaxed to be spending another year in Chicago. Which brings us to...<br />
<br />
<b>The Living Situation: Get Me Out of this Hell Hole</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
As many of you know, I moved in with a girl from my college back in November. Fiona* was two years younger than me at Kalamazoo College and we had maybe spoken a total of four to five times. It's a long story as to how we ended up living together in Chicago, but let's just say it was a spur-of-the-moment-she-seems-nice decision. Not to go into too much detail quite yet, this ended up being an unwise decision on my part. Fiona and I were not well-suited to be roommates whatsoever and it was immediately clear that Fiona needed a "mother figure" in Chicago. I am probably one of the least maternal people out there. Friends and family would say to me, "She's just looking for someone to hold her hand and guide her through this." My response: "Time to push Baby Bird out of the nest!" We also differed greatly in the cleanliness department. For example, I like dirty dishes to be cleaned within 24-48 hours. Fiona didn't mind them festering for nearly a week and often forgot what dishes were hers. She even went to California for three days and was kind enough to leave her dirty dishes in the (extremely shallow!) sink. I also believed in flushing the toilet whereas Fiona had a bit of a problem with that and it was sadly not for environmental reasons (and this only happened with non-pee items!).<br />
<br />
But I am getting ahead of myself. I need more time away from this experience to fully give it justice in a written form because as of right now it will simply be a rant (and a few of you did receive my special piece on "The Back Incident" so you already know a good bit about what I was going through -- to anyone who would like to read this, please email me at gknapp@ama.org or message me on Facebook). A few positives did arise from this living situation: I learned the art of patience, I made great use out of having three jobs, and I was able to foster some new friendships because I needed people to hangout with while trying not to go home until after midnight or 1:00 a.m.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, I officially moved out of the Uptown apartment I shared with Fiona and am now a resident of the wonderfully eclectic Chicago neighbourhood: Rogers Park. Rogers Park (RoPa) is also where Heartbeat Theatre is located so it is nice to have at least one job I can walk to.<br />
<br />
I am again living with a friend from Kalamazoo College, but this time it is someone who I knew fairly well in college and hung out with on multiple occasions. In the week we have lived together, I can already tell that Bianca* and I are going to get along great. For starters, she flushes the toilet and I cannot hear her chewing from 20 feet away -- a giant leap in the right direction!<br />
<br />
<b>Positives and Promises</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I want to end this post on a positive note. While this summer has been an emotional rollercoaster ride and the past nine months have made me feel like I was serving a prison sentence in my own apartment, there have been a handful of positive moments. I feel very settled in my three jobs and have thankfully found greater purpose within my marketing association (i.e. my day job). The people I work with are great and while I am not ecstatic to have to catch a train at 8 a.m. Monday - Thursday, I do like being with the organization (and there is a rumor going around that I may be asked to travel to New Orleans for a large annual conference that we host every Spring so fingers crossed!).<br />
<br />
Heartbeat Theatre continues to be an amazing community of artist to work with and while I am only paid for Front of House work, I am very active in their storytelling group and volunteering with their special events. The Chicago Theatre is perhaps my least favourite of my three jobs, but that has more to do with some of my coworkers than the job itself. If the marketing association were to ask me to go full time then I would drop the Chicago Theatre in a heartbeat, but until then I do enjoy seeing the shows for free and making the occasional bartending tips.<br />
<br />
I turned 25 this year and in honor of my milemarker quarter-century birthday I got a tattoo! It is a modified image of my father's art studio logo, which I got because, to me, it represents family, traveling, art, and being a military brat. I got it on my back and I won't lie -- that thing hurt like a bitch! Luckily, it healed quickly. Right after getting the tattoo my boyfriend took me on a surprise trip to Galena, IL for my birthday, which was a really wonderful time (even though I wasn't able to use the jacuzzi in our room because a fresh tattoo cannot soak in water -- drats!).<br />
<br />
And lastly I want to make a promise that I will keep up with this blog more regularly than I have in the past. I know that I have said that before, but as this is the start of a new "year" in Chicago and<i>a lot</i> more. I have been writing for pleasure fairly steadily since graduating from Kalamazoo in 2010, but I have fallen off the bandwagon this year. Now that my work, living, and social life have reached a comfortable plateau I believe it is time that I treat my writing more seriously and remember that this is what I want to do for a living. I plan to start submitting more pieces for publication so maybe this time next year I will have a story in physical print and not just online!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Here are photos of the tattoo! My other blog-related resolution is to start including photos in my posts. The arms on the man (clockwise) are: glass blowing, photography, pottery, painting, and cinematography. </div>
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I am making some resolutions: eat better, exercise more, read more, and write <br />
<br />
Thank you for continuing to read my scatter-brained blog. I hope most of my posts are entertaining and not bordering on a journal entry. I'll make sure to write again soon!Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-82773700152957520222013-05-16T07:52:00.001-07:002013-05-16T07:52:26.074-07:00What's In A Name?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Last
week a woman at my marketing office sent an email to everyone on our side of
the building and suggested we throw a mini wedding shower for one of the girls
who will be getting married next week. This did not have to be anything fancy;
just a way to say “congrats!”, we’d all chip in for a gift card somewhere and
we were invited to bring baked goods. I messaged the woman back and said, “I
would love to bake something!” She responded that she was actually going to buy
the baked goods, but, as it was going to be Diana’s birthday on our chosen
shower day as well, I was welcome to bake a birthday cake. An avid baking
enthusiast I welcomed this job. I already knew the cake I would bake, too:
Gooey Butter Cake, a recipe someone had once made for a cake competition I
entered and I had always wanted to try it myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The day
came and I took my normal two-train commute to my marketing job. Chicago was
finally experiencing summer heat and I felt overdressed even in my light spring
coat. By the time I reached the train I was a sweaty, uncomfortable mess, but,
since my hands were full with a cake pan and coffee mug, I couldn’t remove my
coat. The train was, as usual, crowded and I found the cake so dense that it
felt as if I had a baby in my arms. I was stuck standing next to a door getting
direct sunlight and by the time I reach my stop (45 minutes later) I was in a
foul mood and cursing having accidentally volunteered to make a cake for Diana,
who, truth be told, I wasn’t quite sure who in the office Diana was.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
A dose
of The Daily Puppy helped brighten my mood as did all of the wedding
decorations a coworker had put up the night before. Since the bride-to-be sat
across the aisle from me, the carpet around my desk was riddled with fake rose
petals, small metallic hearts and Cupids, and glitter – lots and lots of
glitter. When the bride arrived we all stood around and ate handmade artisanal
doughnuts from one of the most popular doughnut shops in Chicago (Glazed &
Infused – so good that I did not change their name). There were pistachio
doughnuts, maple glazed with bacon doughnuts, toffee pecan, bar mixture (a
chocolate doughnut covered in icing, M&Ms, pretzels, and potato chips),
banana nut cream, and so many more. They were amazing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The day
then continued on as normal. When 3 o’clock rolled around I began to wonder if
my cake had been forgotten about. I was pretty sure I knew who Diana was, but I
didn’t know how to go about just bringing the cake down from the staff lounge
without seeming like a total creeper. Diana and I had maybe talked once since I
started this job two months ago. I thought about whispering to one of my
coworkers about the cake, but that, too, felt awkward. I have only been with
this company since late February, but my interactions with people didn’t really
span outside of the four who shared a wrap-around desk with me. Finally, I
sucked up the courage and emailed the woman who first initiated the party
planning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Now is
the perfect time for cake!” she emailed back, “If your team is ready then just
give Cody a nudge (or email) and I am sure he will get the ball rolling.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Cody is
one of my supervisors and sits right behind me. I thought about emailing him
since we often email each other casual questions and comments even though I
could reach out my arm and touch him. Instead I leaned over our connecting
desk.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Cody,”
I said, trying to keep my voice down. Diana sat across the room. “Should we do
the birthday thing now?” Cody stared at me as if I asked if we should feed the
horse now. “Do you know what I’m talking about?” I asked. “Should I email you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I then
noticed that Cody was slightly tilting his head and pointing his index finger
to the left. Diana sat to the left of us, but about three yards away. I looked
at him curiously and wondered why he was being <i>so</i> secretive. Suddenly it hit me – Diana. The woman whose name I
did not know and had just assumed by deduction that she was Diana – she was not
Diana (I mean, her name could also be Diana because I know that it starts with
a “d”, but that’s all that I know). Diana – the <i>real</i> Diana – was my other supervisor who sat right next to Cody.
Luckily she was so enrapt in her email that she had missed mine and Cody’s
entire interaction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Immediately
my face flushed. I know Diana! I speak to Diana every day! Diana has taken me
out to lunch, she’s read one of my published stories – I <i>know</i> Diana. For some reason I had grown to accustomed to hearing Diana
referred to by her first and last name, Diana Stanley, that when I was told it
was just “Diana’s” birthday my mind did not even try to connect the dots.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Needless
to say, I felt like an absolute moron. I quickly ran upstairs, grabbed the
cake, recruited a few more people, and returned for the birthday festivities. I
had been told that my coworkers were awkward at acknowledging people’s
birthdays and never was this more accurate than when I was standing a couple
feet away from Diana, cake in hand and her back to me, and everyone else just
stared. I waited for someone to start singing “Happy birthday to you…” but it
never happened. The office was dead silent except for Diana’s typing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Happy
birthday, Diana!” I finally cheered. Cody and I began singing, “Happy birthday
to youuuu.” A few people joined in, but quickly abandoned the tune, leaving only
Cody and I to soldier on. Diana was both surprised and overjoyed especially
since no one had mentioned it was her birthday (Obviously or else I would have
realized <i>which</i> Diana that email was
talking about). If I do say so myself, the cake was amazing and within an hour
there were only two squares left. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
All in
all it was a successful day of celebrations. Next time I volunteer to bake a
cake, however, I will make absolutely sure exactly WHO I am baking it for. <o:p></o:p></div>
Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-1098468818771917872013-04-18T13:38:00.000-07:002013-04-18T13:38:54.083-07:00Bring Out the Ark!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, dear readers, a State of Emergency has been called for
the state of Illinois, specifically the Chicago region. It’s kind of funny that
I would live through roughly ten years of Hurricane Seasons and hurricane
floods on the coast of Georgia, and yet this is the first time I have
experienced flooding that has caused a State of Emergency.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rain began last week with little drizzles here and
there. I wore my rain boots for the first few days, but stopped when there were
no real puddles that needed to be waded through. Yesterday, however, I finally
brought my Van Gogh rain boots back out from the closet and it turned out to be
perfect timing. From up on the 58<sup>th</sup> floor, my office-mates and I
watched as what looked like a smoke screen rolled billowed towards Chicago from
the West. The screen turned out to be pouring rain and our views turned to
sheets of white as the storm engulfed the Loop.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the rain finally let up, we all began to notice that it
was incredibly dark outside. It was 3 p.m. and already it looked to be nearly 8
o’clock. Lightning suddenly ripped through the sky, followed shortly by a
thunderclap and the sound of water once again tumbling from the clouds. An
interesting note to make is that thunder sounds different when you are closer
to (and sometimes inside) the storm clouds. Instead of the typical BOOM, the
thunder sounds almost like a dump truck full of metal that was relieving its
load.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My Van Gogh umbrella fell victim to the Chicago winds last
week, but thankfully a coworker has a stash of spare umbrellas for just such an
occasion. I waited until downtown Chicago was no longer “in the red” on
weather.com and bolted for the bus stop. The bus made it two blocks in 15
minutes before I finally decided that I could walk to my next job faster than
the bus could drive. I thanked my coworker over and over for her umbrella as I
walked eight blocks in increasingly heavier and heavier rain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the time I left my second job the rain continued to come
down, but not quite as heavily. I went home, packed my bag for my weekend trip
to Georgia, and went to bed. Around 3:30 a.m. I was awoken by a flash. This
obviously gave me a momentary heart attack before I realized it was coming from
lightning outside. The sky lit up and rumbled for a few minutes as I tried to
drift back to sleep. Suddenly, a powerful lightning bolt brought daylight into
my entire room and was immediately followed by a crack so loud that it not only
shook my room and my nerves, but it set off a car alarm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This intensity of thunder and lightning continued for some
time. After about 10 minutes the owner of the disturbed car silenced their
alarm and I was able to go back to sleep. Three and a half hours later I was
showered and placing the last few necessities into my bag. My roommate
(shockingly) left before I did (she’s usually not up until noon) and it was the
first time I thought to take a peak outside and see how hard it was raining. I
lifted my bedroom blinds and my heart stopped. The curb along my one-way street
could no longer be seen. A rippling pool of water covered the whole block,
leaving less than half a foot of the sidewalk free of flooding. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had obviously been checking weather.com periodically to
see how the weather for my flight would be and each time a red exclamation mark
warned me about flashing flooding in Chicago – but I didn’t think they were
serious! This was Chicago for god’s sake! A major metropolitan city! Who
expects one of the United States’s major cities to experience flash flooding.
That was the kind of stuff people out West on prairies experienced. Not the
land of gangs, CTA clusterfucks, and the Cubs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As if on cue to add to my slightly strained nervous, the
skies opened up once more with monsoon-like rain and Zeus-is-pissed lightning.
I sent my coworkers an “I think I’m going to be late email” and began to
brainstorm the best way to get to work with a rolling suitcase in the middle of
flash floods. Walking to the train might not be so bad. But would everything in
my suitcase be ruined? I certainly couldn't hold an umbrella in this weather. A
taxi? How much would that cost? My car? My car! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I dashed to the window and pulled up my other blinds.
Typically, my car was parked directly outside my building, but I had lost my
parking space over the weekend and was forced to park a block away on a cross
street. Small sedans on my street no longer had visible tires and even the rims
of a CRV were completely covered with dark brown water. I went to the windows
in the living and in the 3<sup>rd</sup> floor hallway, but I couldn't see my
car. Sunnyside, my street, was a lake – a fact that was only highlighted as an
SUV drove down the block, creating waves that went over the roofs of each
parked car it passed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Screw getting wet</i>,
I thought. <i>Odie needs me!</i> (For those
of you that are unfamiliar with my unnatural obsession with my car – his name
is Odysseus, but his friends call him Odie.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I placed my electronics in plastic bags, my hairdryer in a
Target bag, and my passport in a zip lock bag (I take my passport even when I
travel domestically). I put on my spring jacket on first because it was still a
bit chilly outside and layered my rain coat on top. I shoved my feet into my
Van Gogh rain boots and left the apartment. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rolling my suitcase was a joke. I made it as far as the
sidewalk before lifting the bag to my chest and sloshing through the flood
water. A fire hydrant on my corner was more than half submerged and I was
forced to walk on the curb as I crossed the street when it was clear that the
water was deep enough to flow into my mid-calf boots.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I waded through the waters, keeping a watchful eye for
passing cars. The last thing I needed was a waterfall over my head. Taxis trolled
up and down the street, looking for those of us unfortunate enough to be
walking in this weather.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, I saw my car. Apparently the cross street was
higher than my block because he barely sat in an inch of water. I breathed a
sigh of relief and finally headed toward my train.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since arriving at work the rain has yet to let up and word
on the travel-street is that O’Hare International Airport is cancelling flights
left and right. As stated before, Gov. Quinn has issued a State of Emergency
and photos abound a flooding all over Chicagoland. Engineers have opened the
flood gates of the Chicago River so that it can release some of its stress into
the lake, a geyser erupted out of a too-full sewer by the Ravenswood Metro Stop
(Google that!), the Chicago Sun-Times has started a live stream of #CSTstorm
photos (one which I contributed), and a sink hole swallowed three cars (and one
very surprised driver who is doing just fine at Northwestern’s hospital) on the
south side. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of all the times to leave Chicago! Luckily, I have two
friends who live either on or just passed the street where Odie will be
spending the weekend. I have asked them to alert me to any flooding on this
street and then I will…well most likely panic since I’ll be in Georgia and heck
if I can remember where I put his spare key (and his primary one is currently
in my suitcase since I was worried I would need to drive him to safety this
morning). Fun times! <o:p></o:p></div>
Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-71239565035900221052013-03-04T19:53:00.000-08:002013-03-04T19:53:33.805-08:00Oh What A Night
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The other night I walked to my usual
train stop. It was cold and I practically waddled down the sidewalk due to all
of my layers. My face still burned from the cold so really that was no help.
There are two entrances to the Wilson stop and for some reason I decided to use
the big one where the CTA personnel are stationed instead of the smaller, less
frequented entrance. As I stood and waited for the Walk Symbol to let me cross
the street I began twisting back and forth. I have a bad habit of dancing subtly
to the music from my iPhone, but during nights when the weather channels says
“feels like -3” I also do this just to stay warm. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I twisted, a figure on the ground
caught my eye. Outside the Dollar Store window storefront, about ten feet away
from me, a man was laying on the ground. People lying on the ground is
obviously not an unusual site in any city, but he was on his back, which did
seem odd. Normally, people on the street curl up in the fetal position or at
least cover their head in some capacity. The man was also without any blankets
or boxes or trash bags, which automatically labeled him as “not homeless.” His
left leg was to the side of his body, bent at the knee, his calf parallel to
his back, and the toes of his foot just grazing his shoulder. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I thought about going to the man and
asking if he was okay. Like I said, he had none of the typical makings of a
homeless person. He wore dark jumpsuit pants with two white stripes running
down the side; the kind sports players wear when they’re working out. His upper
body was encased in a thick jacket, puffy vest, and a hood covered his head.
Everything about him said ‘not homeless,’ but I hesitated approaching the man.
Unfortunately, this particular corner of my neighbourhood is full of the most
unstable people. Between the Dollar Store and Currency Exchange, the corner of
Wilson and Broadway is rife with unsavory characters yelling at one another,
yelling at passersby, mentally unstable people hassling the presumably stable,
and so on and so forth. This corner is also known for a good bit of violence,
but since my parents read this blog I won’t go into any further detail on that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I stared at the man and his
unnatural leg. I thought about the times when I had been yelled at by crazies
on the street and decided not to approach him. He was underneath a four-paneled,
brightly lit window. If something was wrong, surely someone would have noticed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I crossed the street and walked into
the train station. I paused at the door and looked across the street to the
man. He hadn’t budged. I went up the stairs, beeped my card, and climbed the
next set of steps to the train platform. I walked to where I could see the
sleeping guy. A tall, lanky, hooded man stood over him. He looked like he was
talking to the man. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Good</i>, I thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">someone is checking on him. </i>I crossed to
the southbound side of the platform and joined a super PDA couple in one of the
CTA’s heat lamp areas. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A fire truck from the station a few
blocks from the train stop came tearing out of its garage. It blasted through
an intersection and under the train platform. I texted a friend to see what she
was up to and ask what time we were meeting for the improv show that night. My
CTA Tracker app said my train would be approaching shortly. Mr. and Mrs. PDA were
obviously anxious to have the hot box back to themselves so I crossed back to
the northbound side of the platform. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The fire engine was parked outside
of the Dollar Store. Three policemen stood over the sleeping man and Tall And
Lanky was nowhere to be found. Three firemen sprang from the truck. Two of them
greeted the policemen while the third grabbed an emergency box from the side of
the truck. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Damn that man is drunk</i>, I
thought about Sleeping Man. Obviously the poor guy had gone on a bender and was
now so wasted he couldn’t even rouse himself for the emergency responders.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The fireman with the box put his
hand on Sleeping Man’s throat. The other five men stood and observed. The man
with the box walked back to the engine and put the box back in its designated
spot. The cops said something to the other firemen and they nodded. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I heard the rumblings of a train and
looked south to see the lights of my train approaching. I took a small step
back from the edge of the platform and looked back at what was happening on the
street. The fireman who had been carrying a box had his back to me and was
towering over Sleeping Man. The platform vibrated as the train began to slow
down. The fireman shook out a white sheet that I hadn’t seen him holding
earlier. He draped it over Sleeping Man’s body just as the train blocked my
view. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He’s
cold, </i>was my immediate thought. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He’s
cold and they’re covering him up with a blanket. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The train doors opened and I waited
as a few people exited the car. A man got onto the train in front of me and
stood on the far side of the car, the one that gave a perfect view to what was
happening outside the Dollar Store. I stayed on the opposite side of the car
and strained my neck to see what was happening. The doors closed and the train
began to pull away. I could still see the three cops and three firemen standing
on the sidewalk. By their feet was nothing but a white blur. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I arrived at Heartbeat a bit shaken.
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am one of those people</i>, I thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">someone is in trouble and instead of cause a
scene I just look the other way. I am one of those people who let Kitty
Genovese die!</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now, it was pointed out to me soon
afterward that not only was the man obviously dead before I even happened upon
that street corner, but I had also done what any young woman would have done –
do not approach the strange man who could most likely be drunk and/or deranged.
Some people *cough*myboyfriend*cough* would quip, “That wouldn’t happen in a
small town,” and I wholeheartedly agree. Had that man been lying on the ground
on St. Simons Island I probably wouldn’t have given a second thought to going
over to him. Hell, I’m sure someone would have even witnessed the moment of his
collapse and come running. However, a lot of things happen in big cities that
do not happen in small towns. People are more likely to trust others in a small
town. Like that elderly couple in Vermont who opened their door to two young
men one night and were then brutally murdered. The point is, big city or small
town, crazy shit happens. (We could also get into a gender discussion because I
feel that a woman lying on the ground would garner great attention and concern
than a man on the ground, but that is a discussion for another time.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I told a few of my coworkers of what
I had witnessed. I was somewhat amazed that most of them guessed the man was
dead by the second sentence. I continued to receive encouraging ‘you’re not a
horrible person’ texts from my closest friends while I completed my shuttle
driver duties.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once the play started, I set up camp
in the box office so that I could kill the next two hours until I had to drive
patrons back to our parking lot. Jenny and Christine began emptying all the
trash bins to take to the dumpsters out back. As they made their way to the
door I asked if they wanted some help. Jenny, the Front of House Manager, said,
“No. Someone should stay in the theatre just in case something happens.” They
left and naturally I logged onto Facebook. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I had just begun looking at my
newsfeed when I heard the stage door fly open. Now, Heartbeat is not a large
theatre. Our house seats 95 people and the handicapped row is literally on the
stage. Our seats go up from the stage like stadium seating. Patrons use the
side door before and after a show, but in the curtain speech we ask that they
please use only the stairs located in the middle of the theatre because if they
were to use the door they entered through then they will be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in</i> the play. Sometimes people totally
disregard this and just use the side door anyways – even if it’s being used as
part of the set!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This is what I assumed had happened
when I heard that very door fly open. However, instead of the
naïve-bathroom-seeking patron I was expecting, one of our ushers came tearing around
the corner. “Call 911, a patron is having a seizure!” she exclaimed.
Instinctively I grabbed my cell phone even though her words did not compute. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I don’t remember this part of the play</i>,
was all I could think. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?” I manage to get out.
“They’re...what? Are – are they stopping the play?” I unlocked my phone. As I
did I remembered that iPhones are built so that you can call 911 from the Lock
Screen. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wow, I suck at emergencies. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No. I don’t think anyone knows,”
the woman responded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A dispatcher picked up the other
line and I began stumbling through a description of what was happening:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hi, I’m at 6978 N Morse Avenue –
Heartbeat Theatre. A patron has had a seizure.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay, ma’am, where is the location
again?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“6978 N Morse Avenue. We’re right
off the Morse Red Line stop. Big black and white marquee.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“How old is the person?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Umm...I’m not sure. We have old peop – 50. Let’s say no
younger than 50.” I paced around the lobby, poking my head out the front door
periodically to look for Jenny and Christine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Man or woman?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“This is actually all happening inside the theatre. An usher
just came out and said that a patron was having a seizure.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
I heard movement in the lobby. Our two ushers were supporting
an older man and helping him to one of our couches. A woman stood to the side
of them and I recognized her as one of my shuttle passengers. “Male,” I said
into the phone. “The person with the seizure is male and,” I lowered my voice
and turned away from the group, “I’m gonna say about 70 years old.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Finally, I saw Christine outside the door. I rushed over,
still on the phone with the dispatcher who was having a very hard time
understanding the address I was giving her. “A man had a seizure,” I explained
quickly to Christine. “I’m on the phone with 911 and the paramedics are on
their way.” Christine’s eyes went wide and she rushed back down the ramp
yelling, “Jenny!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Within five minutes the fire department had arrived. The man
was stable and alert and the older woman with him seemed almost humoured by the
whole situation. In true Chicago theatre form, the play was still going. The
paramedics, the sick man, the older woman, and the ushers all stood just
outside the entrance to the theatre. Jenny put her head in her hands and turned
to me. “I want to tell them to be quiet,” she said, “but I feel like...you know.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Doesn’t feel quite appropriate?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I know,” she sighed exasperatedly. I did agree with her,
though. The paramedics certainly seemed to be unaware of where they were and
even our ushers began to converse at a normal speaking level.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
As the paramedics wheeled the man out on a kind of
stretch-turned-wheel-chair, I approached the older woman and asked if she
wanted to be taken back to her car so that she could meet him at the hospital.
She said ‘yes’ and we left for the van. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Once inside the van, however, I longed for the noise of the
paramedics. How awkward was this going to be? Was she going to cry? Should I
give her words of encouragement? Was she the type of person who got angry and
lashed out at people instead of feeling sad?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
To play it safe, I opted for neutral ground. “Do you know how
to get to the hospital?” I asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Oh yes,” she responded. “I’ve been there many times. This
isn’t the first time this has happened?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“No?” I prepared for waterworks. Some sort of ‘I’m just so
worried about him’ montage.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Oh no. He has seizures <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i>
the time!” she said in the same manner someone would joke, “He gets lost <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> the time!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Is he epileptic?” I asked. Having dated someone who was
epileptic I felt maybe we could find common ground.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Nah. Just forgets to eat, that moron.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Ah.” This was certainly not where I envisioned the
conversation going. “How long have you two been married?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Married?! HA! He’s my boyfriend.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Oh!” I did not do well at disguising the shock in my voice.
“I’m sorry, I just assumed you two...were married?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“We should be.” Her tone turned catty. “We’ve been dating for
seven years! He’s a widower. I don’t know though. We’ll see if things change <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">after tonight</i>.” She added a smug chuckle
and nod to herself. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
By the time we reached her car I had also learned that the
man had children, whereas this woman did not, and he had had a seizure on their
very first date: “One minute we’re enjoying dinner with friends and the next –
there he is on the ground!” (I felt she wanted to add, “That rascal,” but maybe
thought it a bit disrespectful since he was currently in the back of the
ambulance.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
The end of that night could not have come soon enough. I was
exhausted, somewhat bewildered, and feeling a bit cursed. As I rode the train
back to my El stop, I peered out the window to where the man had been laying on
the ground. Nothing was there. I’m not sure what I was expecting. Police tape,
chalk outline, flowers? I guess I was just hoping for some sort of remembrance
to say, “A man died here tonight.” I didn’t know the man. I could not even tell
you what ethnicity or age he was, but it made me sad to know that someone could
just drop dead, anonymously on the side of the street, and four hours later
there was absolutely nothing to mark what had happened. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
I’m sure someone on St. Simons Island would have placed a
wreath over the spot. In such a small town, something like that would have made
the nightly news and be featured on the front page of the Brunswick News for
the next two days. In Chicago, however, there wasn’t even a whisper of it. If
you didn’t see it, it was like it had never happened. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-86222856615419083882013-02-14T17:14:00.005-08:002013-02-14T17:14:46.589-08:00Cupcake Whores (Warning: Very Explicit Language)
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Working part time as a barista and shuttle driver has allowed
me to nurse and grow a love of people-watching. During my shifts as a shuttle
driver I simply sit in Heartbeat’s parking lot (located 6-ish blocks away from
Heartbeat) and wait for someone to park their car and get into the van.
Sometimes I will sit in the parking lot for two hours and not have a single
“shuttlee.” While this may sound boring, the hours go by swiftly thanks to the
characters on the street. This is going to sound super voyeuristic, but it is
fascinating the things people will do when they think no one is watching. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
One man crossed paths with an attractive young woman. A few
steps after they had passed one another the man turned, stared at the woman’s
ass, and gave an approving smile. He turned around just in time to run into a
large low-lying limb. He let out a guttural yell, threw his hands above his
head, and kicked one leg into the air. Regaining his balance, he looked to make
sure no one was watching. I pretended I had been staring at my lap the whole
time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
On another occasion I watched as three teenage boys walked in
between a few parked cars that were located diagonally from the van. They
circled each car carefully until a white BMW caught their full attention. The
boys peered into the car’s windows and even looked under the car. After about
ten minutes of this they finally thought to look and see if anyone was watching
them. Their eyes stopped on the shuttle van and I smiled and waved. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Caribou, however, provides more fascinating people-watching
because I can actually hear their dialogue. After working at Caribou for a
month and a half I have observed one thing: people choose to meet in a coffee
shop for almost anything, even meet-ups that should be in a private location.
Last week we had a mini birthday party in our lounge with the fake fireplace.
One couple came in every night for a week and interviewed a new nanny every day
(and they brought their child with them, which was an unfortunate choice
because he tried to destroy something each night). A man came into the store the
other night, ordered a cup of decaf coffee, and then sat and stared at the wall
for an hour. Literally. He did not pull out his phone, he didn’t not scribble
notes or even drink his coffee. He simply sat and stared. He thanked my
coworker and I for the coffee and then left. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
One afternoon I got off of Caribou at 5 p.m. and decided to
kill an hour and a half before I was to meet some family members for dinner at
a restaurant down the road. I took a seat in a back corner of the store and
pulled out my laptop. I gave my best friend a call to catch up. As we chatted,
a man who looked to be in his late twenties entered Caribou, wheeling a
suitcase behind him. He paid for a drink and took a seat at the table directly
in front of me. I finished my call with my friend and plugged earphones into my
laptop. An attractive blond woman entered the store and bee-lined to Suitcase
Man’s table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She sighed heavily and let
her purse drop with a loud thump onto the empty seat. It was clear that she was
pissed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
I began searching for a song in my iTunes. I sampled a few,
but couldn’t decide which Broadway musical I was in the mood for. Between each
song I heard snippets of the couple’s conversation: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“How was your trip?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Fine.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Drowsy Chaperone? No.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Good day at work?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Not really.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tarzan? Nah.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I’m glad we finally got some snow.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Company? </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I just want to know how the FUCK you could lie to me like
that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eh?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
My interest was piqued. In my freshman year of college I took
a Playwriting class. The professor gave us a weekly assignment to listen in on
conversations and transcribe what we heard. The exercise was meant to teach us
how everyone has their own specific speech pattern. Without thinking, I started
a new page on the Word document I had previously been working on and began
typing the dialogue that began to transpire. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“You laid in the same bed as me,” the girl said, her voice
not rising, but full of vehemence. “You looked me in the eye. You looked me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in</i> the eye as we laid in bed together
and you lied to me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I didn’t lie to you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Well you didn’t tell me, did you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Well no –“</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I would have liked to know when you were coming home on
Sunday.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I didn’t come home on Sunday.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Yeah.
Would have been nice if you had texted that to your fucking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">girlfriend</i>.” Angry Girl was all about
emphasizing her words. Suitcase Man simply sat and took the anger. I found
myself automatically siding with him, the weaker party.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“We’ve been dating for over two and a half years,” Angry Girl
continued, “and you’ve boiled it down to this. Literally you are horrible. I
can’t believe you did this to me. You just had to say, ‘Tasha, I’m having a
really hard time. I feel like I’m not getting enough love and attention.’”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I tried.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Yeah, grabbing my boobs is one thing, but maybe try opening
your fucking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mouth</i>.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“That’s not fair.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“What’s her name?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh shit!</i> I
momentarily left the confrontation to type this information to my boyfriend who
had started Instant Messaging me. When I returned it was like being thrown into
an episode of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Days of Our Lives</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“My mother had just died,” Angry Girl said. “I was going to
therapy. It was nothing personal. I went over to his place after the funeral and
cuddled. Okay, yeah. I liked it. You weren’t there; I needed someone.” (She
began speaking faster and angrier so I began to lose what pronouns she was
using at times.) Suitcase mumbled something and Angry Girl responded, “I was
always attracted to you. I was never thinking about other guys.” Suitcase
mumbled some more. “You were dressing up nice for work!” Angry Girl retorted.
“You were flirting with her and she was baking you cupcakes. I mean, if you’re
just eating another woman’s cupcakes that’s just fucking disrespectful.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“The cupcakes didn’t mean anything.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“When we first got together you told me how cheating was a
big deal to you. Your dad cheated on your mum and they got divorced; your
brother cheated on his girlfriend who he then proposed to; and then your
girlfriends cheated on you – I mean what the fuck? Now you go and start dating
someone else while you’re still dating <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me?</i>”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“We weren’t dating.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Sorry – fucking. You started fucking some other girl while <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">we</i> were still fucking.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Everyone cheats on each other.”</div>
“Everyone cheats on each other? Pieces of shit in your head.
Literally all you had to do was open your mouth one time.” (Suitcase mumbled
something inaudible.) “You’re moving to North Carolina?” Angry asked. “When?”<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I dunno. Two months probably. I’ll stay at Rob’s place until
I go.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Where are you going in North Carolina?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Wilmington.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“You’re just going to up and leave? Things get a little hard
and you just move?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“It’s what I do.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Which is why you moved here from LA.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Yeah.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“What the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fuck</i>,
man? You are seriously fucked up. You just run from place to place.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Yep.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I will put your stuff in trash bags and leave it at the
front desk,” Angry responded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I’m traveling for business tomorrow.” Suitcase’s tone became
suddenly defensive.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Angry crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. “Okay.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“You have all of my suits. I need those for presentations.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I’ll put them in a garbage bag and leave them at the front
desk when I get around to it. Probably won’t be by tomorrow, though.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need</i> those
suits. You can’t just hold my clothes hostage.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I could throw them out the fucking window, but I thought I’d
be better than that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Come on, just let me come up and grab a few things. That’s
all I need. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need</i> my suits, Tasha. I
can’t go on a business trip without suits.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Go buy one.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Now Suitcase was really pissed. “I’m gonna call the police
and tell them you’re holding my stuff!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“If you can afford to take this girl to Mexico, you can
afford a new outfit for work.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Goddamnit, I didn’t take her to Mexico.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“No, you two just kept planning your business trips at the
same time. I wanted to go to Mexico, you know. I asked if I could go and you
said it was a ‘guys only’ trip.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I didn’t want you to go.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Well it’s fucking obvious why now. It was just you and your
whore.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“You can’t hold my stuff hostage for a fucking week!”
Suitcase was getting so upset I wondered if he was about the get physical.
“Just give me one piece of clothing!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Angry studied her nails. “Okay...I’ll have to see what I can
find,” she said nonchalantly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Can I have my computer, too?” Angry didn’t respond and
continued to look at her nails in an approving manner. “Please? You’re really
being horrible.” (Ha! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hello, Pot, this is
Kettle. I believe you’ve met.</i>)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Are you kidding me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Hey,” Suitcase threw his hands in the air, “I’m the one
being civil here.” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stupid, stupid man.</i>)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You’re </i>being
civil? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This</i> is civil? You just feel
bad that you were caught!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I’m a fucking piece of shit. I get it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“You’re dating another girl.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“We’re not dating!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“You went to Mexico together.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“That wasn’t a date! It was just a trip – you say you were
attracted to me, but how was I supposed to know? You didn’t want to have sex!
You were always pissed off.”</div>
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“I was going through the worst fucking tragedy of my life. I
lost my mother and my best friend, I mean that’s something the really only
happens once in your life so I’m pretty sure things were going to get better if
you had just waited.”</div>
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I was finally so invested in this conversation and
relationship that I fought the urge to get up and just call the guy an asshole
to his face. I thought about texting one of my coworkers to bring Angry Girl a
free drink. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Everyone’s parents die,” Suitcase said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Not when you’re in your twenties! You seemed so much more
than just sex when we began dating.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“We drifted apart.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
(The next few moments of the conversation were to low and
hurried for me to hear, but I caught that Angry Girl found out about the affair
because she didn’t know when Suitcase was coming back from his business trip.
She went into his email to find his flight itinerary and instead found a
plethora of emails from Tori Murphy: aka Cupcake Whore.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I thought about putting your laptop in the sink,” Angry
said, staring daggers at Suitcase. “But I decided to take the classy route.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Thanks.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I threw away all of your corks, though. We were collecting
them to make a table together. I threw yours away.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Okay.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
They were silent for a while. Angry was still leaned back in
her chair, arms crossed, staring at Suitcase, who sat hunched and staring at
his hands in his lap. “I hate you,” Angry finally said. “You suck.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Yeah.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“And unlike me, your girlfriend is ugly and has an eating
disorder.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
And with that, Angry agreed to grab a few of Suitcase’s
clothes from her closet while he waited in the lobby.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Two days later, Angry Girl walked into Caribou and searched
through our rack of cards. I waited for her to come up to the counter and
thought about giving her a free drink. I knew that the gesture would probably
reveal what a creeper I had been in listening to (and transcribing!) her
break-up, but I decided it was a risk worth taking. If our roles had been reversed
I certainly would appreciated a free drink! Unfortunately, she decided she
couldn’t find the card she wanted and left. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
It’s a shame I never got a good look at Suitcase’s face. I’d
like to cough into his next drink or give him 2% milk when he asks for skim.
Taste my vengeance!</div>
Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-11519353791258629502013-01-17T19:51:00.004-08:002013-01-17T20:41:41.160-08:00It Shall Not Be Brewed!<div style="text-align: justify;">
Wow. It has been over two months since I last wrote a blog post! Time sure flies when you're waiting for the pieces of your life to fall into place.</div>
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Sadly, since I last forced myself to sit down and write in my blog nothing much has really occurred in my life. I applied to grad school, gained a third pseudo roommate (a friend from Georgia who is trying to begin a new life in Chicago -- in other news, I no longer have a living room), participated in a three-week long storytelling festival, started a new part-time job, and (drum roll) left my apprenticeship at United Theatre Company. The short explanation for leaving United is that they grievously abuse their unpaid interns. And by "abuse" I mean they do not respect our (unpaid/volunteer) time, have those of us with a car spend our own gas money running pointless errands, and really just use us as grunt work. I had been warned by several theatre friends that United was notorious for this type of behaviour and that if I ever felt I was being taken advantage of then the Chicago theatre community would understand. After being instructed to drive around the Loop on my day off, denied the free time to go to a paid-job interview, and told I had to make up a sick day when I called in with a fever -- well it didn't take long for me to stop and think, "Umm I'm not even being <i>paid</i> for this and I am miserable." It was also clear that the Board had the Gala already planned and they only needed me to fill in a few gaps and basically do tedious paper work. Having already gained that experience at Heartbeat Theatre (and in a much more appreciative atmosphere!) I decided United was not worth my time and raised blood pressure.</div>
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Leaving this apprenticeship obviously left me with a lot more time on my hands than when I had first moved back to the city. I used this time to complete my grad school applications, walk around the city just to get out of the apartment, write, and apply for new jobs. Although I applied for a few semi-glamourous positions that I am still keeping my fingers crossed for, the job I ended up with is part-time barista at Caribou Coffee. Now, I have never worked in the food industry, but I have always commended people who do because just from observation I can tell that it is not an easy position. Tomorrow will mark my two week anniversary as a barista and I must admit: this feels like the hardest job I have ever had.</div>
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Those of you who know me and my love/need of coffee are probably thinking, "What? But working with coffee is right up your alley!" To these people I say yes, a job in coffee should fit me as well as a job dog-walking would. However, I have always been the type of coffee customer who looks at the board and picks a drink that is listed on the board. If it's not there then I assume it is not an option. Customers at Caribou, on the other hand, are approaching me with what sounds like made-up words and concoctions and already I find myself wanting to point at the series of boards behind me and exclaim, "If it is not written, then it shall not be brewed!" (And those last words will go something like Gandalf yelling at the Balrog Demon: "IT SHALL NOT BE BREWED!")</div>
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Up until today I have primarily been working evening shifts at Caribou (or "The Bou" as the cool kids call it). These shifts go from 5-10pm and I see an average of 15 to 20 people each night, which is really not much when the primary drink these customers want is a cup of drip coffee. Luckily, I have had a few people actually wants lattes and mochas so I have gotten a lot of practice in making those drinks. </div>
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Today, I worked 11am-4:30pm. This meant I would be right in the mix of people still leaving for work, going on lunch break, and getting off of work (or, my favorite, the people bringing work and meetings <i>into</i> Caribou). Part of the daunting task of today was that not only were people expected to order beverages more complicated than a plain latte or mocha, but now food was being thrown into the equation. I can barely find the button for Hot Cider on our touchscreen registers let alone try to figure out where the hell the Turkey Gouda Pesto sandwich is listed. I have worked with money and cash registers since I was 13 years old, but these have always consisted of a scanner. Every single item having its own special button on the computer register is a whole new concept for me and one I am frankly not a fan of. Give me a good ol' ISBN any day!</div>
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After the early morning rush (pre-9am), my Caribou only has two team members working at one time. This is so one person can work the register and the other can handle the bar (i.e. where the drinks are made). Today, my "shift buddy" was the store manager, Janet*. Janet is a very sweet woman, who is probably only my senior by four or five years. She is a patient supervisor and has yet to make me feel like an idiot even when I admitted to giving someone iced tea sans ice. Janet also gave birth about two months ago. Therefore, Janet is still breast feeding and must "pump" nearly once an hour. This means, although Janet is wonderful to work with, it feels as though she is rarely there.</div>
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Janet took her first pumping break around 12:15pm. She asked if I could handle working the cash register and bar at once and I said that I would be fine. The moment Janet left a woman in a jumpsuit suit entered the store. She strode up to the counter and ordered a nonfat mocha and an oatmeal. "Oh, and can I have it Maple Brown Sugar Crunch, please?" I assumed that was a type of oatmeal mix we offered.</div>
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I made her mocha without any problem. I pulled out the Food Guide Book and flipped through, looking for Maple Brown Sugar Crunch. Finally I found it: <i><b>fill the pre-made oatmeal cup halfway with steamed water.</b> </i>Okay, easy enough. <i><b>Stir with wooden stick.</b> </i>Done. Bam! I am awesome.<i> <b>Add two pumps of Maple syrup.</b> </i>I held the small oatmeal filled cup under the syrup spout. The lever seemed to be stuck so I pressed down with more force. The nozzle suddenly gave way freely and fell into the oatmeal as the rest of the bottle magically unattached itself and clattered to the floor. I scrambled to pick everything up before anyone noticed. I then saw the new bottle of Maple syrup and used that instead. <b><i>Stir with wooden stick. </i></b>Now came the tricky part. <b><i>Add two scoops of Brown Sugar Crunch. </i></b>To the side of the three espresso machines at the bar are 16 canisters filled with toppings for our various drinks. Some of these, obviously, were used to create different types of oatmeal flavours. Naturally none of these were labeled. I opened each canister and narrowed my choices down to three possible toppings that could have been Brown Sugar Crunch. The bar can clearly be seen by the patrons and I didn't want anyone to see me just stick my finger in a canister and taste-test something.</div>
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The front door opened and a woman with a stroller entered. She held the door open for a tall, clean shaven young man, who held the door open for tall, bearded young man, who held the door open for a much shorter young man. It was obvious this foursome had simply arrived at the same time and were not actually together. Suddenly the Brown Sugar Crunch clock was ticking. I sniffed my three canisters -- still nothing, although now I had narrowed it down to two. Stroller Woman leaned over a cash register to look at me. "One moment!" I called. My time was up and I knew what I had to do. Quickly, I stuck a clean wooden stick into one of my two choices. I acted as though I had dropped something on the floor and as I bent down to "pick it up" I stuck the topping-covered stick in my mouth. <i>Damn.</i> That could be brown sugar or it could be...well I don't know what it could have been, but it certainly did not taste like what I thought Brown Sugar Crunch should taste like. </div>
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A man in a business suit entered and got in line behind Stroller, Cleany, Beardy, and Shorty. Time was up! I scooped two spoonfuls of the whatever-topping into the oatmeal and planned to apologize profusely if the woman could tell I had made a mistake. I momentarily looked for a spoon and then decided to hell with it and just brought Jumpsuit her overly complicated 3 oz oatmeal.</div>
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Stroller Woman whispered her order to me and I had to lean across the counter to catch even a syllable of what she was saying. Thankfully, it was a white hot chocolate with whipped cream (this I had learned to make when I asked my shift supervisor how to make hot chocolate and she said, "Girllllll, it is a <i>mocha</i> without <i>ex-presso</i>."). I swiped Stroller's card and told her I would get to her drink as soon as I had taken the orders from the other people in line. Cleany ordered a miraculously completely pre-made Blueberry Parfait. As I handed it to him I saw Jumpsuit stand and turn towards me. </div>
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"Can I get a spoon?" Cleany asked.</div>
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"Yes, that would be helpful, wouldn't it?" I responded, heading towards the bar to begin my spoon search once again.</div>
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"Can I get a spoon, too?" Jumpsuit asked.</div>
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"Yep! Just one moment..."</div>
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"They usually pull them out from under the counter," Cleany said, pointing below the register.</div>
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"Do they??" Thank god the customers are more competent than me! I dove under the counter and began pulling apart boxes. "I don't see the spoons?"</div>
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"They definitely always pull them from down there," Cleany said. "Like from the Magical Spoon Jar." </div>
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I stood and looked at the four pairs of eyes on me. "I am so sorry," I said. "This is really sad. It's only my second day and I have no idea where the spoons are." (I realize it wasn't my second day, but I thought that sounded more forgiving than admitting it was nearly the end of my second week.) "Let me just got ask my manger." I ducked in the back quickly. Janet had a curtain drawn around her desk and the hum of a pumping machine could be heard. She told me the spoons were actually <i>behind</i> the register; not under it. I returned triumphantly and even gave a little "aha!" as I presented two spoons to the line of customers.</div>
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"Okie," I said, "knowing where the silverware is -- check!"</div>
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Next in line was Beardy, who laughed and said, "You're doing great." He ordered a "small coffee in a medium cup." This order seemed simple enough so I quickly turned, grabbed a medium to-go cup and filled it to what I thought was the small cup level. I handed it to Beardy and he had just enough time to turn before handing the cup back to me. "I don't want to be picky, but that doesn't seem like a small size. It looks even smaller than the small."</div>
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"Does it?" I looked in his cup. I thought my measurement was accurate.</div>
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"You can pour it into a small cup if you want to gauge the size," he suggested. </div>
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"I'll just take your word for it." At this point I was ready to start giving away free food to make people happy.</div>
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Shorty ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, a cookie, and an espresso shot. I apologized that his items would have to go in line behind Stroller's hot chocolate. As if on cue, Stroller waved my attention from the other side of the bar and asked if anyone was going to make her drink. I apologized, said I was alone behind counter, and promised to get to her drink ASAP. Businessy ordered a Caramel Highrise and my heartbeat sped up -- <i>I don't know what that is!!</i></div>
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I began to make Stroller's drink. I attempted to do Shorty's espresso shot at the same time and burned myself on the steam wand in the process. As I poured the hot chocolate into a cup for Stroller she whispered something and pointed at her drink. I went around the bar and put my face half a foot from her face. "I want nonfat whipped cream," she said. </div>
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"No problem," I replied.<br />
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I went back behind the bar and spilled some skim milk. I looked into one of our refrigerators. Four identical whipped cream canisters stared back at me. I could have sworn the other night one of them said 'nonfat', but now it was nowhere to be found. <i>Screw it</i>, I thought and grabbed one of the canisters. I gave her half of the normal amount of whipped cream to make up for giving her more calories than she had whispered for.</div>
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Finally, in the midst of cautiously handing Businessy what I hoped was a Caramel Highrise, Janet came out and took over making the drinks. She left for three more pump breaks during my shift. Each time she left, hoards of people would suddenly enter the store. The worst group was a foursome of business women. One woman ordered a plain coffee (thank you, kind lady), two ordered small lattes (one with skim milk and one with 2% milk and a half shot...yeah...that wasn't confusing when trying to make simultaneously), and the fourth woman ordered a Lemon Ginger Pomegranate Something-Else sparkling tea. She warned me that the last Caribou Coffee that she went to didn't know what she was talking about either. Awesome. I searched for the recipe in the Drinks Guide Book, but alas it could not be found. Instead, I took some of our pomegranate tea and promotional Limone Earl Grey tea (because it sounded like the word 'lemon'), mixed them together, and poured in what I assumed was soda water. </div>
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"Pomegranate Lemon...ummm...sparkling tea?" I called out. The woman stepped up to the counter and stared at the drink. "It's supposed to be red," she said.</div>
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"Is it?"</div>
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"The last time I had it, it was red."</div>
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"But that girl also said she didn't know what she was making," one of the Latte Women commented. Complicated Tea Woman stared in disgust at my drink. </div>
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"I can go get my manager and see how to make another one," I said. "Do you want to try it at least? See how it is?"</div>
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Complicated Tea Woman sighed exasperatedly. "We're in a rush," she snapped. "I'll just take this." She snatched it from the counter, took a sip, and grimaced. (I wanted to say, "Would you even <i>admit</i> to liking it, if you did?") "Whatever, let's go," she commanded. The foursome left. As they did, Plain Coffee held the door open for ANOTHER foursome of business people. I silently cursed Janet and her milk-filled boobs. </div>
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Please, someone hire me before I give people coffee poisoning.</div>
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Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-836546894724312072012-11-11T12:57:00.003-08:002012-11-11T12:57:55.602-08:00Welcome Back to the Windy City, Georgia! Love, the CTA.Hello dear readers! I am now back in the Windy City and today could not be a more appropriate day to finally update my blog from my beloved city because we are currently under a wind advisory. Winds are ranging between 30 - 35 mph with occasional gusts blasting between 45 - 50 mph! I attempted to ride my bike along Lake Shore Drive today (despite the hurricane-esque winds it is sunny and in the upper 60s today -- summer!), but was literally knocked down by the wind just a few blocks from my apartment. Every way I tried to bike was somehow against the wind and I felt ridiculous peddling with all my might, barely keeping enough speed to stay upright, and with my helmet repeatedly blown from my head and hanging by my neck. Needless to say, I am now safe and snug inside a Starbucks and have no plans to venture out until I have to.<br />
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I am back in Chicago to complete yet another unpaid internship at the United Theatre Company. I am working with their Development department as the Gala Apprentice and will basically be in charge of the whole operation (especially since my supervisor's last day was Friday...there are currently no paid employees in the Development department, but instead three volunteer apprentices). I am also still working Heartbeat Theatre and (drum roll) I now have a PAID position with them! That's right, I spelled that correctly: P-A-I-D. As in the opposite of "unpaid". <i>What is this?</i> you<i> </i>say. <i>Paid for something other than hotel work? </i>I know. It baffled me, too, but since I just deposited my first paycheck from Heartbeat then it must be real! I am their shuttle driver. Baby steps, dear readers. Baby steps.<br />
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My first few shifts as a Heartbeat Theatre shuttle driver have been uneventful. I have met some very happy patrons and was even surprised to receive a tip at one point! My third shift ended with me staying an hour later due to a birthday party Heartbeat was hosting. As soon as I deposited my last few "shuttlees" at our parking lot I headed to the El stop so that I could make it home in time to cook dinner and then drive right back to Heartbeat for a trivia night at a local bar. The hosts of the birthday party gave us all their leftover pizza and since I wanted to postpone grocery shopping as long as humanly possibly I took one box.<br />
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The moment I entered the train stop a CTA personnel held up her hand and said, "All trains are stopped. A car derailed at Granville. There will be a shuttle service set up momentarily." This must have just happened because I had heard a train go by five minutes previous. I crossed the street with everyone else and waited at a bus stop since the shuttle would probably take another half hour.<br />
<br /> I now live in the city of Chicago as opposed to Evanston so getting home in a timely manner was not much of a concern. I board Bus 155 and headed south. While I was on the bus a slightly eccentric homeless man sat across from and began making jokes about the pizza box in my hands. He seemed to just be having fun so I responded a tiny bit, but in general I do not like to bring unnecessary attention to myself in public so I was happy when my transfer stop arrived. I left the bus and immediately boarded the 151 that was to drop me a block from my apartment. After about five minutes I realized the bus was heading in the wrong direction. I got off, crossed the street and waited for the southbound 151. When the 151 never arrived I embarked the 36 bus instead, which got me within at least five blocks of my apartment.<br />
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The moment I boarded the 36 bus I was met with a cheery, "The cheese pizza!" There he was: Crazy Homeless Man.<br />
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"You didn't eat the pizza yet??" he said, grinning from ear and patting the seat next to him. I laughed and muttered 'no', pretending not to see him gesturing for me to sit by him. I took a seat in the middle of the bus and hunkered down for what was possibly going to be a long ride.<br />
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It only took a few more pick-ups for the bus to become completely packed. Six of the northside redline stops were shutdown due to the derailment so everyone was forced to commute by bus Crazy Homeless Man regaled everyone by singing the CTA bus rules at every stop: "Back, back, back of the bus. Move back, back, to the back of the bus so that everyone can get on! Back, back, back of the bus." Every now and then he would loudly proclaim something else about being nice to everyone and being gracious to our bus driver, but mostly he sang his 'Back of the Bus' song.<br />
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At one point a man in a wheelchair boarded the bus. Crazy Homeless took it upon himself to part the Red Sea of people and flatten the handicapped seats against the wall. When the man in the wheelchair disembarked, Crazy Homeless once again went above and beyond, even escorting people off the bus to make way and then making sure they got back on before any new passengers tried to seize the opportunity to grab what few open spaces there were. The woman next to me asked how to get to Diversey now that she couldn't use the train system. This was her first time in Chicago so I pulled up a map on my phone to give her a visual.<br />
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"Back, back, back of the bus. Move back, back, to the back of the bus!" <br />
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As we once again let on more people than the bus seemed capable of holding a young man in a tye-dye hoodie leaned over to a business woman in her thirties and said, "I heard what you said about me and that was uncalled for." I think Tye-Dye was hoping to make his statement and then righteously move to the back of the bus, but Business Woman would not allow him the last word. She spun around and snapped, "YOU deserved exactly what I said. You so worried about losing your seat on the bus that you didn't even MOVE for that man."<br />
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"I didn't <i>know</i> he was in a wheelchair!"<br />
<br />
"Don't give me excuses, you rude-ass."<br />
<br />
Tye-Dye attempted to stop his journey to the back of the bus so that he could defend his honour, but other passengers continued to move him away from Business Woman. The two continued to gripe at each other until we got to the next stop. A woman with two small children boarded the bus and stood in front of Crazy Homeless. One of the children was eating a banana and Crazy Homeless decided to sing a song about that. I could tell that some of the older passengers were getting annoyed with his singing at this point, but the mother didn't seem to mind and the kids were humoured by the song so everyone let him be.<br />
<br />
However, one bus rider had apparently had enough of Crazy Homeless's eccentricities. "You need to shut your mouth!" an angry voice called from the back of the bus. Crazy Homeless did not and instead started singing slightly louder. The bus stopped and Angry Man pushed his way to the front of the bus. Just by looking at his face you could tell that he was PISSED. He bent down so that his face was just inches away from Crazy Homeless's face.<br />
<br />
"I want you," he said very slowly, "to <i>shut</i> yo fuckin' mouth."<br />
<br />
"I don't want to shut my mouth," Crazy Homeless responded, still smiling at the child with the banana.<br />
<br />
"What you say to me?" Angry Man asked.<br />
<br />
"I don't want to shut my mouth." Then Crazy Homeless began singing the banana song again.<br />
<br />
"Say that again," Angry Man said. "Say that to me one more time."<br />
<br />
"Kumbayah, y'all," an old man resembling Stevie Wonder said from his corner directly behind the banana-eating child. "Kumbayah!"<br />
<br />
"I want you to <i>shut</i> yo <i>fuckin'</i> mouth," Angry said once again.<br />
<br />
Another man standing near Angry raised his hand as if to block Angry from head-butting Crazy Homeless. "Man," he said, "let's cool it. There are children on the bus."<br />
<br />
Not paying the peacekeepers any attention, Angry began reaching into his jacket. "Say that to me one more time," he said. "Tell me you won't shut yo mouth one more time."<br />
<br />
To set the scene: Crazy Homeless was sitting at a window seat, facing forward. The row of seats in front of him were sideways seats that were turned towards the middle of the bus. Angry was standing, holding onto a support bar. A woman sat in between Crazy Homeless and Angry. In the sideways seats were the two children, an older woman, and Kumbayah. The mother of the two children and Cool It Man stood beside Angry. As Angry reached into his jacket the mother of the two children scrambled to push her kids out of the way. Cool It Man continued to repeat that Angry needed to settle down because there were kids and the woman literally sitting in the middle of the confrontation shielded her head beneath her hands. Others on the bus began pipping up for Angry to chill out and the entire sardine-packed crowded jostled Angry around until he lost his balance and had to once again use both hands to keep himself upright.<br />
<br />
Angry started a stream of profanity and threats at Crazy Homeless again, prompting people to stand up for Crazy Homeless. After all, he was not hurting anyone. He was not being rude, demanding, or even all that unstable. He was simply a very happy man, who liked to sing and make friends and on this particular evening he just wanted to sing a song about a banana to a child.<br />
<br />
"Is this normal?" the woman next to me asked.<br />
<br />
"I'm more used to the train," I said, "but the good thing is that there's a bus driver on here so things can't get too bad."<br />
<br />
The yelling from Angry towards Crazy Homeless and the protests from the other passengers escalated until the whole bus seemed to roar. Angry began to reach into his jacket once again until the noise was silenced by one boisterous shout: "CAN WE PLEASE REMOVE THE MAN, WHO DIDN'T EVEN PAY, FROM THE BUS? HE IS CAUSING A DISTURBANCE!"<br />
<br />
The bus went silent. Angry stood up slowly and turned towards the back of the bus. A hipster looking girl of about my age stared back defiantly. "That's right," she said, "I said it."<br />
<br />
"What did you say to me?" he asked.<br />
<br />
"You got on the bus without paying and now you're just being rude. You need to get off."<br />
<br />
"What are you <i>a-ccusing</i> me of?" Angry began pushing through the crowd to get to the girl. However, given the reputation he had already built for himself he was met with much more resistance than when he shoved his way to the front of the bus. The bus driver was obviously tired of all the animosity on her bus and finally decided to participate in the action. "Sir!" she yelled.<br />
<br />
"When we stopped to let the man in the wheelchair off," Hipster Girl responded, "you got on without paying."<br />
<br />
"YOU didn't pay neither, bitch!"<br />
<br />
She laughed. "Oh, real classy," said the bravest girl I've ever known. "<i>I</i> had already been on the bus and got off to let him off. <i>You</i> just got on with the rest of us then without paying."<br />
<br />
"Sir!" the bus driver yelled again, pulling the bus over at what did not look like a designated stop.<br />
<br />
"Bitch, I --" the rest of Angry's words were drowned out as once again the entire bus rose up against him, telling him to simmer down, and the bus driver laid on the horn. <br />
<br />
"GET OFF OF MY BUS!" the driver screamed. The bus went silent as everyone turned towards the front as two cops boarded. The bus driver had been honking to get their attention. Without any other words, Angry let himself be escorted off the bus by the officers. You could almost feel the sigh of relief pass through the bus as we finally got back on the road.<br />
<br />
Mercifully, we finally got to my stop and the now irksome pizza box to myself as I squeezed my way off the bus. Everyone smiled and gave knowing nods to one another as if to say, "We survived!'<br />
<br />
I made it home in time to put the pizza box in the fridge and then head right back to the bus stop. As I waited, a girl weighted down by Target bags stood next to me. She cocked her head as an unfamiliar bus number drove past. "A train derailed," I explained, "they're using certain bus lines as shuttles because the redline is down from Wilson to Howard (the northern most half of the redline)."<br />
<br />
"Wow," she said, "that has got to be fucking people up."<br />
<br />
"Good god you have no idea."<br />
<br />
Thanks for the grand welcome back to the city, CTA! I missed you, too.<br />
Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-73372000714906564782012-10-27T20:15:00.000-07:002014-11-17T18:33:23.172-08:00Code Word: PigeonsHappy Halloween everyone! I realize it is not the 31st just yet, but here on Mackinac Island it is! Today was the day of the annual Great Turtle Race. This specific race was supposedly the largest one in its seventeen year span with a record 2,500 runners! And those were just the registered ones. I checked in a few guests yesterday who said they were going to be in the race, but had neglected to register for it. <br />
<br />
Halloween Weekend itself is supposed to be the "craziest" weekend on the island -- even topping the yacht races. If we are basing "craziness" on the number of drunks stumbling in and out of the hotel then I would say this observation is true. Last night, I watched as a woman shut herself in our front door (as in, she was leaning against the doorframe and kept closing the door so that she was sandwiched between the two surfaces). Once she had finally broken that riddle and freed herself of the door she proceeded to stumble back and forth in the lobby. It took me a few moments to realize she was trying to figure out which of our two staircases to use. I rose to offer assistance, but she hid her face behind the flowers on the front desk so I left her alone. Finally, she made her way slowly up our main staircase. Since I never heard from or saw her again I am assuming she made it safely to her room.<br />
<br />
I would say that all around, compared to last season, this year has had less drama with hotel guests and more drama with hotel employees. Obviously the employee drama has not made it onto the blog because - honestly - who wants to listen to a rant about never ending girl drama? That is why this summer Mackinac has been labled: "Mackinac Island: The Lifetime Movie that Never Ends." (One plus side is that my experiences have made me look at my roommate from last year, Summer, in a whole new light. It turns out she wasn't all that bad!)<br />
<br />
The few guest-related stories I have at the close of this season would be in my favourite theme of "entitlement." The guests who came to stay with us during the On Season were paying anywhere from $300 - $1,095 per night. The guests who come during our Off Season are paying between $215 - $850 per night. We even have a special at the very end of the season where our rates are discounted 50% from our typical rates. I am not sure why this pattern forms, but it seems that the cheaper the room, the more entitled the guest. <br />
<br />
For example, we had one woman come to stay at the Orchid a few weeks ago. She and her husband had booked one of our two Mackinac Suites. Now, I feel like I've covered this issue before, but just to reiterate quickly: the Orchid books by room category and not room number. You can put in your request for a specific room, but we cannot <i>guarantee </i>that room. This little quirk is drilled into every front desk agent at the Orchid Hotel and I know that we are all unlikely to forgo mentioning this tidbit when booking a room. That being said, this particular guest, Mrs. Gibson, requested the Mackinac Suite that has yellow walls. Unfortunately, that particular room was occupied with a stayover when Mr. and Mrs. Gibson arrived so they were put in the blue Mackinac Suite (the suite that nearly everyone at the Orchid agrees is the nicer of the two Mackinacs). From the moment I informed the Gibsons of this it was clear that Mrs. Gibson was severly unhappy. According to our porter, she complained all the way up the stairs and was disgutsed when she was led into the room. I received a call from her mere moments later and she stated that the current guests in the yellow Mackinac Suite should be told to move since the Gibsons had clearly reserved that room. I explained our policy of 'requests vs guarantees' and mentioned that her reservation notes even confirmed that the desk clerk she booked with "did not promise" the yellow suite. Mrs. Gibson reiterated that the guests in the yellow room should have been told at check-in that they would have to change rooms during their stay. She then asked to speak with the manager.<br />
<br />
For the next ten minutes I listened as Trisha practically trained Mrs. Gibson on our reservation software in an attempts to explain <i>why</i> we would never guarantee a specific room and <i>why </i>we were not going to ask the Yellow Roomers to move. Mrs. Gibson informed Trisha that she and her husband would be checking out of the hotel shortly. Oddly, this never happened. Instead, when Mrs. Gibson and her husband left for dinner they stood at the doorway and Mrs. Gibson complained loudly of how they "should just leave" because they were "clearly not going to get what [they] wanted."<br />
<br />
The next evening, Mrs. Gibson approached the front desk and asked if she could speak with the owner of the hotel. I had already been warn that Mrs. Gibson was trying to track down Mrs. Cannes so I told her that Mrs. Cannes was gone for the day. "Will she be back tomorrow?" Mrs. Gibson asked.<br />
<br />
"I am honestly not sure," I lied. "I think she might be going off-island for the day."<br />
<br />
"Well, I really need to speak with her. I don't think you were here yesterday, but --"<br />
<br />
"I checked you in."<br />
<br />
"Oh...well we are just very unhappy with our room. You see, we had reserved the yellow Mackinac Suite, but we're in the blue one instead and we are just very unhappy about it."<br />
<br />
"Yes. We spoke on the phone after you checked in."<br />
<br />
"Oh...well I would just like to speak to the owner."<br />
<br />
"Mrs. Cannes is aware of your complaint. I'll make sure she knows that you stopped by again."<br />
<br />
For the next two days Mrs. Gibson practically stalked Mrs. Cannes. Trisha had yet to lay eyes on the Gibsons and every morning I stood at the front desk, waiting for the Gibsons to emerge so I could point them out to Trisha. Our code word was "pigeons." <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, "pigeons" was never used and Trisha never saw the Gibsons. Mrs. Gibson was able to finally corner Mrs. Cannes as she began to walk home one night. Apparently, Mrs. Cannes was just about to walk out the front door, chomping on some peanut brittle, when Mrs. Gibson swooped in to tell her of her complaint. Mrs. Cannes told the Pigeon Lady that the matter had to be taken to Trisha. The next morning, Mrs. Cannes told Trisha not to give into any of the Pigeon Lady's demands.<br />
<br />
When Mr. and Mrs. Gibson finally checked out Mrs. Gibson refused to make eye contact with me. Her husband was pleasant and thanked me for their stay. I tried to get Pigeon Lady to look at me and dared her, "Complain one more time. Act like you don't recognize me just one more time." Sadly, she did none of the above and kept her eyes glued to the ground. <br />
<br />
Besides Pigeon Lady the only other mishap at the front desk has been two negative reviews on TripAdvisor stating, "Our trip was great, but we felt ignored by the front desk staff. It was like we were just the same as the other guests." These reviews really irk me. For starters, Mrs. Cannes and Trisha then post the reviews in our employee notepad and write messages underneath saying we should all strive to do our best. Perhaps it is still my young age and stubbornness, but I feel that those of us left at the front desk <i>are</i> doing our best (these negative reviews would be more appropriate if two of the original front desk clerks were still here). I do not know a single one of us who does not acknowledge every guest who walks through the front door. Also, one of the reviews came from a couple who stayed in our Lighthouse Suite - our most expensive room in the hotel. Their review said that they were unhappy because, for the amount they were paying to be in our "top" suite, they expected a more pampered treatment than what they received. <br />
<br />
Here is where the pattern of 'the less money spent the more entitlement felt' comes to play. The Lighthouse Suite is $1,095 per night in the On Season and $850 in the Off Season. This couple came to stay at the Orchid when we were running that 50% special on our Off Season rates. Therefore, they were paying $450. Yes, this <i>is</i> a lot of money. I am not scoffing at the price at all because even at $450 you would not catch me shelling out that kind of cash for a single night's stay. However, I believe that when you put that room price in the perspective of the entire hotel and the fact that it doesn't matter if you're paying $150 for our rooms or nearly $2,000 -- all guests are going to be treated in the same warm and inviting manner (and I am from the South -- I know how to do hospitality!). So, dear guests, please do get off your high horse at times and just enjoy the beautiful fall weather.<br />
<br />
(Sidenote: tonight marks my final night on Mackinac Island. I think it's definitely time.)<br />
<br />
(UPDATE: The woman who shut herself in the door last night just strode into the hotel confidently, picked the correct stairs on the first try, and the proceeded to fall on them a total of three times and then once more in the hallway for good measure. Happy End of the Season! Next stop: Chicago for Round Two.)Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6733758326404599585.post-27165316840768795042012-09-27T16:41:00.001-07:002012-09-27T16:41:17.955-07:00Falling Out of Season<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;">
And once again it has been so long
since I last wrote a blog post that I can’t even remember <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">when</i> I wrote my last blog post. Unfortunately, nothing blog worthy
(or, rather, blog appropriate) has happened over the past few months. Time is
slowing down on Mackinac Island. Our first cold front blew in and decided to
stay about a week ago. The winter winds are beginning to pick up and even
caused ferries to shutdown earlier this week. Green trees are finally starting
to morph into warm orange, brown, and red hues. Probably most agreeable of all
is finally being able to walk down Main Street in the middle of the day without
feeling the need to go all Moses-and-the-Red-Sea on people.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;">
However, for how quiet and relaxed
the island is getting, the same cannot be said for the Orchid Hotel. As
business has slowed down, so have the amount of hours each of us is working at
the Front Desk. Whereas the four of us that are left were getting 50+ hours a
week, now we have been restricted to less than 40. This all came about after "The Magazine Incident" in which the owner of the hotel was displeased to see two
of my coworkers reading a People Magazine while at work. Ironically, there are times when the owner herself plops a magazine or catalog down in front of one of us and tells us to "enjoy." We now know these instances were all traps (not really, but it certainly feels that way recently since she is STILL giving us magazines to read at work). Personally, I was upset because the only time anyone on the front desk did something leisurely like check their email or read a magazine was when there was absolutely
nothing else to do. Unfortunately, the owner did not see it this way and had our
supervisor drastically cut our hours. To add salt to the wound they began
volunteering people from the wait staff to cover our shifts. Were we hurt by
this at the front desk? Unbelievably so. Were we angry? Beyond consoling for a
while. However, we (three out of four at least) are now “dealing with it” and
basically riding out the sorry situation until the end of the season (and
October 13<sup>th</sup> when the restaurant closes and they HAVE to only let
the front desk staff work the front desk). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;">
And now that that mini-rant is out
of the way I will try to regale everyone with a few choice happenings this
fall:</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Mr. Spalina (aka Mr. So Angry And Rude That I
Will Not Give You An Alias For My Blog)</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
As everyone is now
well aware, Mackinac Island does not allow cars except for emergency services
and the odd construction vehicle now and then. Everyone on the island gets
around by walking, biking, or a horse drawn carriage (a bit more industrial
than the Amish kind). There are taxis on the island, but they do not act as the
type of taxis we are all used to. First off, you cannot hail a taxi here. I
have seen a few people try and the result was not pleasant (even on Mackinac
Island taxi drivers are not the nicest of people). Instead, you have to reserve
a taxi and then wait for the specific one assigned for you shows up. Second,
taxis are not the quickest means of transportation on the island. Obviously,
two trotting horses can move quicker than a person on a bike, but when the
taxis have to stop and pick up more people and then let the horses have a
breather now and again suddenly your two mile ride uphill has taken a little over thirty minutes. Thirdly, the taxis are being pulled by
live animals. These animals cannot just stop and go at the drop of a hat. They
may need to stop and rest or have a pee. They may decide they do not feel like trotting and will instead amble along, nipping each other along to way. Your punctuality is
basically at the mercy of a couple thousand pound animals. On top of this fact,
taxis on Mackinac Island are never on time either. You could book a taxi 24 hours in advance and seven out of ten times it will still arrive up to a half hour late. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
And thus brings us to Mr. Spalina.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
From the moment
Mr. Spalina checked in it was clear that the Orchid was not his first choice.
He wanted a room with a king bed, and yet had booked a room with two queens. When I asked if he and his wife they had ever stayed with us before he
exasperatedly mentioned that this was their first time staying anywhere other
than the Grand. He was impatient as I asked for his baggage claim stubs and explained our breakfast location and hours. I showed them to their room and held out the key, willing one of them to just take it so I could leave this absurdly crabby man. Mrs. Spalina marveled at their water view while Mr. Spalina scanned the décor with suspicious eyes. I held back a comment that the Grand couldn't get you this kind of water view unless they painted it on a wall. Unfortunately, that would have been snarky and “snarkiness” has been banned at the
Orchid. Finally, Mr. Spalina gave me a curt nod and said, “This will do.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The next evening
Mr. Spalina and his wife were to board a taxi with two other couples bound for
the Woods restaurant at 6:45pm. All three couples had 7:30 dinner reservations.
For one of the few times this summer the taxi showed up right on time! Mr.
Spalina held the door open for the two other couples and watched them board the
taxi. He then promptly walked to the front desk and said angrily, “That cab was
full. I want another cab to take us to the Woods NOW.” My coworker, Reba, and I
watched as the cab pulled away. There was definitely enough room on the front
bench for Mr. Spalina and his wife.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
I called the taxi
stand and they said they could get another cab there in five minutes. I relayed
this to Mr. Spalina. He looked at me and walked away. Before he could get very far the sound of trotting hooves approached the hotel. Mr. Spalina and I watched as the horse-drawn cab sailed past the Orchid. Mr. Spalina whipped his head around to glare at me. "That cab JUST went right by withOUT stopping," he exclaimed, a little more accusingly than I would have preferred. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"I know that seems confusing," I said. "The taxis are reserved for specific people. That one wasn't actually <i>your</i> taxi or else it would have stopped. That one is probably reserved for someone headed to Mission Point since that's the direction it was headed." The term "stare daggers" had never felt so real until now. Mr. Spalina spun on his heel again and resumed his post by the window in the lobby. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
At 7:05 I realized
with great dismay that Mr. Spalina was <i>still</i> in the lobby. The anger radiated off his body like strong cologne so I took the initiative and called the taxi stand. “It’s going
to be about twenty minutes,” the taxi woman said. I immediately called the
Woods and told them Mr. Spalina and his wife would be late. I then waited for
the inevitable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Five minutes later
it happened. Mr. Spalina poked his head around the front desk and looked at me,
eyebrows raised and unspeaking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I
called the taxi stand a moment ago,” I said, my voice clearly showing my
nervousness, “and they said it would be another twenty minutes...” Mr. Spalina
continued to stare at me. “I also called the Woods and told them you would be
late. They said that would be fine.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Mr. Spalina turned
abruptly and opened the front door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Janice,” he called. He nodded his head as a signal to his wife to
“come.” Mr. Spalina then stomped down the hall in the direction of the Orchid’s
restaurant with his wife in tow. Reba and I exchanged worried glances. We knew
what he was doing. So fed up with waiting for the taxi, Mr. Spalina was hoping
to eat in our restaurant instead. Unfortunately, our restaurant was fully
booked for the night. About a minute later Mr. Spalina came stomping back
through the lobby, head down, eyes blazing, and hands deep in his pockets. His wife trailed him. It
was like being around a balloon that’s surrounded by needles – you know it’s
only a matter of time before it pops. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Ten minutes later
Mr. and Mrs. Spalina were back at the front desk, dressed much more casually
than before. Mr. Spalina looked as if he wanted to grace me with speech this time so I
walked to the front desk. “This is a disgrace,” he said, jabbing a finger in my
direction. “I just want you to know that this whole situation is disgraceful. It is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">reprehensible</i>.
They way we have been treated is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">reprehensible</i>.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
know,” I replied, “the taxis are pretty bad here. This unfortunately happens a
lot.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No!
It is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> bad. It is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rep-re-hensible</i>.” It was at this point
that I noticed our lobby full of people had gone very silent and everyone was
looking at the floor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
know and I am very sorry. I moved your reservation back at the Woods. Do you
want me to cancel it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mr.
Spalina pointed his finger at me again. “If I wanted breakfast at the Woods, I
would have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">booked</i> breakfast at the
Woods.” With that he turned on his heels and stormed out of the hotel. All eyes
in the lobby slowly looked at me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That
didn’t answer my question,” I said to no one. Later, one of the guests who had been
staring at the floor came up to me and apologized for Mr. Spalina’s behaviour. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
next day I told my supervisor about Mr. Spalina. Of course, Mr. Spalina had already beaten me to the punch and told Trisha about the incident. Trisha informed me that it had been Mr. and Mrs. Spalina's wedding anniversary that night. “It’s probably going to be their last anniversary with that attitude,” I scoffed. Trisha told me that was snarky. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
evening Trisha stayed at the office until Mr. Spalina’s taxi arrived. We had
once again booked it for 6:45 p.m. Trisha stood between the chair I was sitting
in and the entrance to the front desk. This time I was ready. I stared intently into the lobby, daring Mr. Spalina to snap at me again. I was Joan of Arc
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">–</span>
ready for battle! When I tried to lean over to see what
Mr. Spalina was doing Trisha blocked me. She said that she was purposefully standing there
to body-block me from interacting with Mr. Spalina. Obviously Trisha knows me too well. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
6:45 p.m. rolled
around and no taxi appeared. At 6:55 p.m. Trisha called the taxi office to
check on the status. As per usual, the taxi people said, “It should be headed
down the street now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
At 7:10 p.m. a
taxi finally materialized. It stopped in front of the hotel and Trisha escorted
the Spalinas down the steps. Reba and I snuck out to the front desk to hear if
that was indeed Mr. Spalina’s taxi.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Are you headed to
the Woods?” Trisha asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Nope,” the taxi
driver responded, “goin’ to the Grand.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Reba and I bolted
into the back of the office. Screw Joan of Arc. At least she was armed! Out of pure instinct I ran to the owner’s office
and hid behind her doorframe. Reba could barely compose herself from laughing
so much. “It’s going to be the Hunger Games at the Orchid!” I exclaimed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Fifteen minutes
later the Spalina’s cab finally arrived. Trisha returned to the office and
called the Woods to not only warn them that the Spalina’s would be late, but to
be wary of Mr. Spalina. Very wary. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The next morning
the Spalinas were mercifully due to checkout. It was Trisha’s day off so only
my coworker Lizzy and I were in the office. As I stood out at the front desk I heard the sounds of someone dragging a large item from the second
floor. This was followed the unmistakable sound of a suitcase being thrown down
the first flight of stairs. Footsteps stomped loudly behind the falling bag. A
duffle bag that could easily hold a body then tumbled down the rest of the
stairs into the lobby. Without much shock, I watched as Mr. Spalina snatched
the bag off the ground, struggling under the weight, and threw it by the front
door. He kept his eyes on the ground, lips pencil thin in a
I-Just-Lost-My-CEO-Position scowl. He ran back up the stairs and proceeded to
throw another hefty bag down the stairs. With great effort he held the door
open for himself and dragged both bags out the front door. It was obvious he
was either going to fall and kill himself or throw out his back. I made no
mention of our porters helping him. If Mr. Spalina wanted to have an
I-Am-The-Silver-Back-Gorilla temper tantrum then I was going to let him.
Besides, a small part of me was chanting, “Trip! Trip!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Mrs. Spalina
calmly appeared at the desk. She handed me her key and smiled pleasantly. She
signed her bill and said she would like a copy for her records. Then, because
the hotel gods apparently have it in for me, the printer jammed while trying to
print the copy. Lizzy opened the printer trying to find the jam. “Why <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> reservation?” she lamented. We gave
each other worried expressions and I kept a constant watch over the front door,
waiting for Mr. Spalina to rush back in and yell at me once more. Mrs. Spalina
must have seen our petrified glances and assured me, “We’ve had a lovely stay.”
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You’ve</i> had a lovely stay,” I wanted to
say, “your husband, on the other hand, has probably been formulating his damning TripAdvisor review since I first led you to your room.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Exasperated, I
took the Spalinas’ signed receipt and ran it through the copier. By this
point I was certain that we were mere seconds from another Mr. Spalina blow-up.
I thrusted the paper at Mrs. Spalina and chirped, “Bye!” She smiled warmly again
and left. As soon as she walked out the door the printer produced her copy of
the bill. Naturally.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">We
Need To Talk</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The other morning
I stood out at the front desk and waited for checkouts. As I waited, an older
man approached and handed me a folded note. “We need to meet in private!” it said
in all caps. Maybe it’s just me, but I thought this was a joke. Back in
Brunswick, Georgia, I was approached several times by old men in the mall who
would ask me to read “Isle of View” out loud. To this they would respond, “I love you,
too,” and walk off cackling like loons. Thinking this was a similar situation I
looked at the man and laughed. He smiled and motioned for me to walk down the
first floor hallway. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Come to 107,” he whispered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Now this felt a little
strange. Trisha looked up from her computer as I went out the door. I had just
enough time to wave the note at her and say, “He wants to see me in 107?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
When we got to
Room 107 I stayed at the door, propping it open with my foot. Unfortunately,
the man walked all the way into the room and turned a corner so that my
distance looked awkward. I could see two other people standing by the beds
and my mind raced with <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Law & Order</b>-esque
scenarios. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Is
someone sick? Is someone dead? Bed defiled? Broken leg? Meeting of the Illuminati?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
I walked further
into the room. The old man, his wife, and their grown son all stared at me. Mr.
Note Writer took a step towards me so that we were only a few inches apart. “I
just want to tell you that this is one of the worst night stays we have ever
had,” he said quietly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ah,</i> I thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am here to get yelled at. Awesome.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Luckily, that was
not to be the case. Instead, Mr. Note Writer and his family wanted to express
to me how creaky the hotel was and how that had prevented any of them from
sleeping during the night. Mr. Note asked if the room above them was made of
wood and I pointed out that although the entire hotel was made of wood, every
room had carpeting. Mr. Note went into exaggerated detail at how the constant
noise coming from the room above them sounded like two 2X4 pieces of wood being dragged together and that at
one point the room vibrated so violently they all thought they were in an
earthquake. He then described how the squeak was not only constant, but also
rhythmic. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“It was like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak</i>,” he said
holding his hands parallel to the ground and rubbing his palms together in time
with the “squeaks.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Did it sound like
a bed?” I asked slightly uncomfortably.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“A bed?” Mr. Note
said, obviously not catching my drift whatsoever.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Well...we have
about three sets of honeymooners here...” I tried to let my pauses speak for
themselves, but Mr. Note was just not getting it. Luckily, Mrs. Note could read
my ellipses.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Dearie,” she
said, “it was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> night. You have to
take a break!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“This is true,” I
agreed and wondered what Trisha would say if she could hear me now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Finally satisfied
that I had indeed listened and acknowledged their complaint, Mr. Note opened
the door for me to leave. He thanked me for coming down and said they had had a
wonderful stay. “I wanted to do this in private so that no one would think we
were talking poorly about your hotel.” I thanked him for his consideration and thought
about mentioning he just call the front desk next time instead of passing
slightly daunting notes. (As a side note, I had been gone so long that when I
returned to the front desk, Trisha was on the phone with our Operations
Manager. They had been moments away from sending in back-up.)</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcYNErjmBSglMApKNEC8wbaqpdveEe74PJIu1q_K0UEHP5ICVrh5A7APkl0R24dHsyEPsn7H90wAnokNyFXw6HFeOVPBjQg_4z6vT4-zKb90bIo4ItPhxnNOPo3B3B6PI6T7NosODBxdz9/s1600/photo-3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcYNErjmBSglMApKNEC8wbaqpdveEe74PJIu1q_K0UEHP5ICVrh5A7APkl0R24dHsyEPsn7H90wAnokNyFXw6HFeOVPBjQg_4z6vT4-zKb90bIo4ItPhxnNOPo3B3B6PI6T7NosODBxdz9/s320/photo-3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
(I realize that adding this photo just gave away the anonymity of the "Orchid Hotel", but my supervisor now knows about this blog and I'm really only keeping to the aliases because I don't want to go back and change two summers worth of blog post. Also, let's be honest, the majority of you who read this already know me personally. I just couldn't resist displaying the picture!)<br />
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Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12516054560131006142noreply@blogger.com2