Really?

Who told you that $3

Is appropriate tip for a $22 dinner tab?

That smiling girl – who was at our table

over and over again,

filling, checking, toting, fetching.

We sat there for an hour and a half

She filled our drinks 3 times.

$3 -  really?

Why is it that

the kindest most generous men don’t see

that all that work,

is worth more than $3?

1/25/11

tsr

Twice in my recent dating history I have excused myself, pretended to go to the bathroom, and tipped the waitress more than was left with the bill.  The third time I just put cash on the table right in front of my date.  It is a particular hang-up of mine.  The majority of wait staff are women and many of them head single parent households.

It’s a generalization but men seem particularly unaware that the base pay is miniscule.  It’s a very difficult job and I can’t imagine doing it.  Girlfriends and I have discussed this.  We think it's fairly common.


"Tipping is optional" said a young man once.  "Not when you're with me" was my reply.

The thing to ponder is - should bad tipping be added to my list of non-negotiable things?  That list is generally reserved for things like homophobia, racism and the narrow minded.  Should it include devaluing people who serve you?

Hmmmmm . . . .

Meat . . . in a can

What can be more fun than meat in a can?  My previous meat in a can experience has been limited to tuna and the like.  I’ve never eaten actual red meat out of a can.  Even saying it makes me feel like laughing out loud.  I have no idea why it tickles my funny bone so much.

I love to cook and somehow meat from a can just feels . . . wrong.  I have tried Vienna sausages in the past and if you haven’t tried them – don’t.  They ARE just wrong.  Pale, too salty, slimy and vaguely phallic.

Some time ago I came by 2 cans of corned beef.  The way they came to be with me is a different story for a future blog. They have been languishing in the back of my cupboard, untouched and ill considered for what turns out to be not quite long enough. 

Yesterday, desperately hoping to avoid a trip to the store and somewhat fascinated by the opening process pictured on the side of the can, I ventured into the rich and aromatic land of processed, meat-like, food.   Who can avoid opening something that comes with a key?  You take it off the side of the can and then insert the small tab of metal left on the side of the can into a hole in the bottom of the key.

Wasn’t sure what to do with it once the can was opened and I shook the gelatinous contents out.  It was shaped vaguely like a pyramid . . .

I sliced it, fried it and slapped some mayo on two pieces of bread.  I managed to eat the major portion of the sandwich but the rest was enjoyed by Dexter and Wilbur at dinner with gusto.  

Anyone want a can of corned beef?

Possibilities

The thing about starting over is that the world is filled with possibilities.

From loss to possibilities . . . a huge, wonderful leap.

I’ve closed my eyes, checked my straps and I’m about to jump from the plane.

So scared, so proud . . . of myself.

I am my own heroine.  Moving forward to make the life I’ve chosen.

So stuck . . . for so long.

Where to from here?

The best days, scariest rides . . . still to come.

Places and people waiting around the corner.

I am an unfinished story, fraught with possibilities.

I want to dance . . . spin, in wide circles.

Close my eyes and falling - know

that I’ve fallen before and know how to rise.

Awkward – that time on your knees – regrouping.

Before you stand, wavering, unsure.

That is when I choose to dance – that moment.

So, you are right – I will fall.

For me, falling is essential.

Mistakes – elemental.

Not “NO FEAR” nor “fearless”

Filled with fear and jumping anyway

That’s me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a1gcMsRiNok

Last July

I wrote this poem last July.  I was reading back through things to find something worthy to post.  Friends have now commented that I haven't added anything new, so . . . pressure builds.

The dance circles around you

on your dais – with your gavel.

Pronouncements  follow -

who is worthy . .. who is not.

Each step analyzed.

Must be within prescribed limits -

within strict control.

Must be nice to be so certain

that you are the ultimate judge

of their worthy submission.

7/12/10 

tsr

I always end my poems the way my mother did.  You could tell hers from others that she collected because she ended with her initials and the date.  I liked that idea, so I've done the same since I was in fourth grade.  Since I collect snippets from everyone – whether written or said by pretty much anyone around me, I need a system. 

The question I'm asking myself today is . . . what was this poem about?  I wasn't actively involved with the legal system so it's a metaphor.  I have no memory of the disagreement that precipitated this poem.  I can tell that I felt judged – apparently negatively. 

I suppose I could investigate.  Look back in Facebook, emails, my pda.  Who was I feeling answerable to?  Who was I so afraid of? 

The truth is I’d rather not know.  The thing about art is that it captures that moment as perfectly as it can.  The imperfection is the things that are missing – the negative space that it does not capture.  In some ways I think that the unsaid says as much as what is said.  The unadorned canvas is very much a part of the overall impression of the art itself.

The larger context of the poem, although interesting, really wasn’t meant to be captured.  So, what I know is that on July 12^th . . . this was where I was.  That is enough for me.

I have her paintings . . .

In 2 months it will have been 20 years since my mother died.  What followed is an incredible story of patience.  When she died my sister and I encouraged her husband of 8 years to avoid giving anything away until he had time to process his loss.  At that time, we took nothing from their home.  My father had left things from his side of the family as well as all he had accumulated during his marriage to my mother.   Within 6 months my mother’s husband, Ed, had stopped communicating with either my younger sister or me.

Independence Rock - Colorado National Monument

When he died 3 years ago I wrote a letter to the neighbor who inherited our legacy.  In the end, most of her things were already gone.  I was able to recover a few of her pieces of jewelry, her paintings and some furniture (which remains in storage in Colorado).

Front porch

Mom decided to try to paint at 42 years old after my father left.  Her decision provides us with a legacy along with her poems.    So please enjoy this window into my legacy.

Self Portrait

A Space in My Head

I can’t stand it.  There is a space in my brain

where how to deal with my car should be

and it’s filled with cotton.

Somewhat educated - with both

dad and grandpa “car men” - as a kid.

I learned nothing that made me feel less helpless.

Bring Me the Shivers

Bring me the shivers of a cold winter day.
Good weather for snuggling, puppy on my lap
under a blanket while I read a great book.

Bring me the shivers of a scary story.
Read in the dark night,
surrounded by silent house.

Bring me the shivers of holding a hand.
Kissing in the dark
at the end of a sweet night.

Bring me the shivers of holding a new baby.
The smell of new life.
The joy of renewal.

Bring me the shivers of standing in a spot
where I feel that no one
has stood before.

Bring me the shivers of the earth from above.
Watch it slip by the clouds
as I hurdle through the sky.

Bring me the shivers of a strange airport
Where no one speaks English
while I follow the signs to a train.

Bring me the shivers
Of Life!!!