My Stint As A Waitress

A close family friend died last Saturday evening and her memorial service was this past Wednesday May 15th. Since I'm still home recovering from my hand surgery, I told Marie that I would take her.

It was a lovely and well-attended service. Afterwards I said to her, "Marie, do you want to go downstairs for the repast, or go to the Peppermill for a belated Mother's Day lunch?" She thought for a minute and then opted for the repast. "Are you sure?" "Yes I am. We can sit with Dottie and Mary."

So downstairs we went, only to discover that there weren't many seats available; so we ended up at a table full of strangers. The woman directly across from us introduced herself, but no one else besides my mother and I did. I knew this was going to be a long meal.

With that being said, right before the pastor called our table to go up for food Marie whispered to me, "I'd rather go to the Peppermill." Seriously??? "And how do you propose we leave without being noticed? We're the only chocolate chips in the cookie so I know people will notice us leaving!" "Well when they call up our table, we'll just go last and no one will notice us scoot out the door!" she whispered triumphantly.

And I guess she's sure no one noticed her in her fire-engine red coat and white hat sneaking out with the giant. Oy vey...

We went to the Peppermill, which really is my favorite hometown restaurant. Everything homemade, great chef, friendly staff and the food is so yummy and comforting! Our waitress was one of my regulars; and at the end of our meal I was figuring the tip. "Being a waitress must be hard work," Marie commented. "I couldn't imagine being on my feet all day."

"I was a waitress once," I commented. My mother's eyes widened. "You were? When? I don't remember."

"That's because it was the first job I got when I moved to Long Island."

I was 19 when I moved to Long Island. My ex worked for Belmont Race Track, and there happened to be a breakfast diner located there. He spoke to the owner, and she agreed to give me a try. The diner was only open from 5 a.m. until 11 a.m., so this coincided perfectly with my ex's morning schedule so we could ride to and from work together.

I'd never waitressed before, but the owner and her sisters, who were all at the very least in their 40s, seemed very happy to have me on board. I took breakfast orders, and sometimes even made breakfast sandwiches on the grill. I wasn't very fast but the customers, primarily track trainers, jockeys and owners, didn't seem to mind and the tips were awesome! One morning I made a ham, egg and cheese breakfast sandwich for one of the trainers, and he left me a $50 tip! I was ecstatic! That must have been the best sandwich ever, and the best part was we didn't have to share our tips. I was the happiest new waitress on Long Island!

Then the week ended, the diner closed and I went to the owner to collect my week's actual pay. As she handed me my pay she said, "Um...we won't be needing you anymore." I was crestfallen! "Why not? I know I was slow but I know the customers liked me because they always gave me big tips."

She shook her head. "That's just it. The big tips weren't for your cooking, or your service. It was for...servicing. Out back..."

My 19-year-old mind spun. What she was saying, without saying it, was they were running a prostitution service for the higher-up track employees! So that $50 "tip" was for me to meet him out back for a different kind of breakfast! It was an open secret that I hadn't been aware of at all!

So sadly, that was my one and only foray into the waitressing world. When I met Raymond that day I asked him if he knew they were prostitutes. He said yes but hadn't figured they'd have me do it because I was his woman. Guess you were wrong Raymond!  They needed some young eye candy to boost their "sagging" sales, ha ha!

My mother was speechless after that story. "Well!" she finally said. "I guess it's a good thing I raised you right."

"Yeah, I guess it is."

She leaned closer over the table. "But tell me: were you tempted even a little bit?"

"Not at all. But I probably should have figured something was up because trust me: my cooking wasn't that good!"

I have no idea if "Mom's Diner" is still there or not. But if it is: I hope they give the new girls a head's up. No pun intended!

Speedy Recovery?

I am home recovering from hand surgery on 2 fingers of my right hand, which is my dominant hand. It hasn't even been a week yet and I am BORED.  I can't drive yet so I'm not going anywhere. It's hot so I'm not sitting outside. I currently have a low power bill so I won't turn on the central air. So I basically...sit. Or nap. Because even though it's my hand, any surgery is a trauma to your body so the body tires quickly.

You want to know who isn't bored? Pumpkin! This is one of the best things that's happened to her all year: Grammy's home! She's can't go anywhere! So Grammy can spend all night and all day with Pumpkin!

Let me tell you: I am sick of Pumpkin. I adore her but I'm trapped! So at night she's in my bed sleeping while I'm awake because I'm hot even with a fan blowing on me.  Then in the morning, after I've been up since 5 a.m., she stretches her little legs, opens her eyes, gazes adoringly at me and then comes over for me to rub her belly. Seriously? I only have one usable hand, you selfish little dog! Yet I rub her belly. Then she goes back to sleep while I give her the evil eye.

When I can't stand it anymore, I get up and we go downstairs where I have to singlehandedly open her Chef Michaels and feed her. As she eats, she gazes adoringly at me. Then she joins me on the couch, curls up in my lap FOR A NAP while I channel surf and curse the lack of anything watchable on the TV. Judge shows, who-the-baby-daddy shows, infomercials, news. Thank God today there was a marathon of America's NEXT Top Model on. Pumpkin wakes up from her nap, gazes adoringly at me and then goes back to sleep! She's such a hater!

One of the worse things about this recovery process is using my left hand. You don't even want to know how long it's taking me to type this post one-handed! But there are things that aren't fun that I have to do with my less dominant hand. I don't get too upset with the uneven moisturizing, or tooth-brushing or hair styling. However, there's one thing that I've had a hard time with, and that is what I'll delicately call the "T-Rex". 

It's the T-Rex because you know how when you take care of, you know, personal stuff, it's all good and you reach what you need to?  Well, it seems like now, since I have to use my left hand, my arm isn't long enough!  It's still the same circumference and all, but it's just not the same. And you end up at a weird angle...and let's just say that one time I almost fell off of the toilet! Brie's still laughing about that because I was dumb enough to tell her!

With all that being said, please wish me a speedy recovery. Or that my left arm gets longer...either one!

Call Me "Ishmael"

A few weeks ago I received a 2nd bonus that I didn't tell anyone about. I did this for a couple of different reasons: I just wanted to pay off a couple of charge accounts and a loan; and then I wanted to squirrel away a little bit to go to the Saratoga Racino.  I was going to just sneak over there one day and no one would be any the wiser.

A couple of nights ago I had a dream that I went to the Racino, went to a certain machine and won $2,954.00!  It was a sign!  So now I knew exactly how it was all going to happen, and that I was finally going to win a jackpot!

My opportunity presented itself today. Kitty was at a friend's house for the weekend and Brie was getting all beautified at the hair salon.  So after I had my standing hair appointment I drove to Saratoga: my anticipation growing. I had a brand-y new $100 bill in my wallet: the money I had saved from my bonus specifically for this occasion. I was ready to break the bank!

I found a parking spot far enough from the entrance to be sure the wind wreaked havoc with my new 'do. Bummer!  Why were so many people there, anyway, taking up all the close parking spots? I fought my way through the wind and made it to the door. My heartbeat picked up in anticipation: would the machine of my dream be in the same spot? Would it be available? Was my dream of being a jackpot winner finally going to be realized?

I went inside and walked along the wall to the spot in my dream where the winning machine was supposed to be. Lo and behold: there it was! The Stinkin' Rich machine, featuring the smirking skunk that held the key to my soon-to-be acquired wealth! So as not to alert any of the other patrons to this fact, I slowly sauntered up to the machine and sat down in the chair in front of it as nonchalantly as you please.

This was it! My moment had come! I slowly took out my $100 dollar bill, not remembering how many times I was going to have to play, but knowing that I'd emerge victorious! I inserted the bill and watched the credits show up: 10,000 of them. Hey: it was a penny machine. But that didn't matter because I'd had the dream and I was about to make it a reality! So I entered the number of lines I wanted to play, and hit the magic button: 'repeat the bet'. As the lines spun, they eventually stopped and I hit...NOTHING. What? Well apparently it wasn't going to happen on the first spin. so I settled in to do battle with the machine.

Let me tell you: I fought with that machine for what felt like days. I felt like the guy trying to reel in Moby Dick! It was just me and the skunk, I'd lose credits, then I'd gain credits.  My money would go down, and then it would go up again. I was sweating, I was silently pleading...I got 2 bonuses to the tune of 45 free spins which was unheard of for me. Lady Luck was smiling at me: as she should be. There was no way I was going to go down without a fight!

And finally, when I felt I had no more left to give, I gave it one last spin.  I won! I won!!!!! I beat Moby Dick!

Yep: I beat Moby Dick all right. I'd gone in there with my $100 bill, and I walked out almost 2 hours later with:  $100.25.

You might think the whale, I mean the skunk, beat me but that's not true. Maybe I didn't exactly win the jackpot of $2,954.00, but I still came out ahead. I'd had fun, killed some time and didn't lose a dime.  However, the next time that I have a dream about winning a jackpot at the Racino: apparently it's going to have to be on more than a penny machine!

Pumpkin-Patra

In 2001, I had to have some surgery. Prior to this, I was wondering: who would take care of me? Who would take me to the hospital? Would anyone visit me? Who would watch my children? How was I going to get around in the house alone? Who would take me to run errands? Since I was the primary everything to everyone in my family and extended family, I was leery of anyone doing the same for me.  Surprisingly, Marie came up with the answers to my household questions: she would stay with the kids while I was in the hospital.  She decided that we would buy a twin bed with a high bed frame and thick box spring for me to sleep in the living room to be closer to the bathroom and high enough so I didn’t have to strain too much to get up. Thanks Marie! My fiancé at the time grudgingly took me to and from the hospital even though he hates hospitals, was there when I woke up in recovery. Marie cleaned my house, did the laundry and kept my kids in line.  I was very happy.

Until I actually came home from the hospital and realized that was as far as the “caring” went. Life went back to normal for everyone except me. I had to hobble around, very slowly, if I wanted to have anything to eat. I wasn’t supposed to drive for at least 2 weeks, wasn’t supposed to lift anything and then I begged my sister to go to the store for me but she wouldn’t. However, she did deign to TAKE me to the store, where I had to lean on a shopping cart and slowly hobble around the store collecting my items. Then she was nice enough to lift the bags out of the cart and put them in her car, but then wouldn’t take them upstairs for me!  So I was very sad. I had even fallen in the house once, and it took over half an hour for Brie to hear me calling (she was in her bed asleep!) and come out to help me up. Thank God the cats were there to sit on me to keep me warm.

Now let’s move the calendar up a few years. My little Pumpkin Louise is 3 years old and I wasn’t planning to breed her, although I would have loved her to have puppies and many people wanted a puppy by her. But alas, she’s so little and I decided that if she had a baby, she wouldn’t be the baby anymore. So I made the decision to have her spayed. I was horrified at the thought of her having surgery, but when the vet told me that if a female dog isn’t bred, each time she goes into heat it increases her chances of mammary cancer. I certainly didn’t want that, so I made the appointment.

Now, I’m not saying that she’s spoiled, but I did make sure in the days leading up to her surgery that I gave her extra love and treats and told her she was the best little dog in the world. I planned to take the day of her surgery off, but then figured it wasn’t necessary since I was dropping her off at 8 and wouldn’t be able to take her home until at least 3.  So she’d be fine at the vet’s.

However, when I took her there and they wanted to take her, I was reluctant to hand her over. Then I asked if I could scrub in and watch. Then I asked if I could be with her in recovery. Yeah: the answer to both of those questions was a resounding no.  But they assured me that she’d be fine and all would be well and I could call to check on when I could bring her home. Ha! Little did they know how many times I’d call to be sure the surgery went fine, and that she was recovering. Finally, when they were sick of me, they said I could pick her up at 3.

Oh what a joyous reunion it was! I had to be very careful with her, but I took my little princess home, carefully carried her upstairs and placed her gingerly on her bed, which of course is on my bed. I had gotten care instructions from the vet, but they basically consisted of keeping her quiet, don’t let her lick her stitches and that she shouldn’t be alone for the next couple of days because of the pain meds and she’d be a little groggy and lethargic.

So now I realized that I needed to take extra good care of her. And this is where the difference in her recovery, and my recovery, became more than evident!

When I needed to go downstairs, I knew she wouldn’t want to be in my room alone. So I picked her up, bed and all, and gingerly carried her downstairs. I had already put my special warm fuzzy in her bed so shed’ be all snuggly. I placed her and the bed on my brand new couch next to me so she could see me and I could pet her.  I figured she might be thirsty, so got I my special State Farm cup and got her a drink of water. Then when I had to go back upstairs, again I carried her, in her bed, back up the stairs and back in my room. I gave her another drink of water and put her squeaky fox in the bed with her and my special fleece. The next morning I was hoping she’d eat, so Gabriella put her food on a special little blue and white plate and brought it up to her.  While Brie held the plate, Pumpkin delicately nibbled on her food, and Brie had to turn the plate to make it convenient for her. Then I had to give her a drink of water out of the mug. Seriously?? And when it turned out that I had to go into work a couple of hours on Friday, I had to get a babysitter for her!

Pumpkin’s a smart dog: and she got used to this VERY quickly.  I carry that darn dog up and down those stairs in that stupid bed all the time. It’s like Cleopatra having her servants tote her around in that ornate carrier she had.  I’m calling my dog Pumpkin-Patra!   And even though now she can get around pretty good and is eating and doing other “normal” things, when it’s time to go upstairs or downstairs in the morning she jumps in her bed and looks all  pathetic until I carry her. And the best part of all: Luna has decided that she wants to jump on, or rather in, the bandwagon. The last time the bed was on the couch, I saw her trying to get in there too! That’s when I knew it had gone too far.

So Pumpkin is well on the mend, eating and moving around as she should be.  We are no longer holding her plate of food for her to eat. However, and just because she’s so cute, I might still carry little Pumpkin-Patra up the stairs tonight at bedtime.  But after that: that’s it!

 

It Isn't About Blood

I grew up in what you could call a nice traditional 2-parent family. I had siblings, and we were well provided for.  My father had a good job which enabled my mother to enjoy being a housewife and mother. We went on vacations and enjoyed holidays.  But even from a young age, for some reason I had a feeling of being on the outside looking in. I didn’t feel as connected as I should have felt as a member of the family.  So I decided that when I got older, I was going to create my own new family.

That idea seemed like a good one. I had friends at school, and they became my school family. I’ve always attended church, so those people became my church family. I loved them, but it still never felt quite right. So the new plan was once I got older and married, I’d find a new family that way.

Eventually I did meet someone that I married, but…I definitely didn’t fit in with that family! We didn’t share any of the same views on child raising, employment, family values or have anything in common.  Here’s an example of what they thought was a good way to live: "don’t work, just have kids and get on Social Services because they’ll pay for everything!"  Maybe a good way for his sisters, but not for me. So my dreams of shared holidays, family vacations and family fun night died just like the marriage ultimately did. 

In 2000 I met someone that I thought had great potential to give me a new family.  He had parents and sisters and a niece and nephew.  However, even though we became engaged, it still wasn’t right. His sisters were nice, I adored his niece and nephew, but his parents were none too pleased that he was dating a woman of color. No shared holidays there!

I loved my daughters, and if it was going to be just the three of us: so be it. We loved being together, traveling and doing girly things.  We were, and still are, a tight family unit.

But what I hadn’t been noticing as I searched for a new family was that I’d been accumulating: kids.  Friends of Brie’s that had family problems, or no relationship with their own parents, would come to my house for a meal, or to spend the night, and in a couple of instances to stay for extended periods. They’d call to talk to me or ask advice.  They were looking for family, and my little family apparently fit their bill.

Then a year ago, I was introduced to a young man that has become close to Brie. It was New Year’s Eve and we were at a club that a very close friend of ours owned. She told me that she was going to go get Bubby so I could meet him. I watched her approach him and then point me out. I saw the look on his face, and it looked like he’d seen a ghost or wanted to run for the hills. Regardless, she brought him to me and I shook his hand; and there was a very weird vibe that passed between us.  When my daughters and I were leaving for the night we saw him outside and I went over to say goodbye. “Can I have a hug?” he tentatively asked.  So I gave him one, and again felt that weird vibe.

As it turns out, he comes from a family of 4 siblings.. Their mother died 5 years ago, leaving them in a state of emotional loss. He was very close to his mother so it hit him especially hard. As I have gotten to know these 4 lovely young adults, my heart has totally opened up to them.  We get together at the father’s house to talk (or for me to bring food!), Sunday is becoming family game night, and I love them almost as much as I love Brie and Kitty. We bonded so quickly, there wasn’t any time for awkwardness. Even as young adults, they still craved a mother’s love and I was searching for an extended family to love.

As for that weird look on his face when he saw me: he recently told me that he was startled because when he looked at me, he felt something that he hadn’t since his mother died. I took that as a wonderful compliment.

I believe that God works in mysterious ways.  While I thought that I was supposed to marry and have a new family that way, God played to my strengths and brought me what I love the most: kids! It doesn’t matter that they’re above the age of consent. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t give birth to them.  All that matters is that when we’re all together: I feel like I’m home. And through my new “kids”, I’ve learned that family isn’t about blood: it’s about love.  That’s the tie that binds hearts together.

Lies My Mother Told Me

Of course parents sometimes tell little white lies for their children's protection, edification or to make life easier for themselves. Like when they say not to make faces because if the wind changes it will freeze that way. Or you'd better behave or they'd tell Santa not to bring you anything for Christmas.

However, little evil Marie was more hardcore than that. She would say things that haunt me to this day. Things like, "If you continue to bite your lips, one day you're going to hit bone." That terrified me because that was a nervous habit when I was a kid. Do you know it took me until a few years ago to realize that there is no bone in your lips!

Or, "If you eat paper/bite your nails/eat too many sweets you'll get parasites." AHHHHH!!! Frightening! I had to skip many science classes to avoid hearing anything about that subject.

Being a devout Christian woman, she had to hit me with, "If you don't go to church every Sunday, Jesus won't welcome you when the time comes." Seriously: why did she hate me??

But the absolute, most terrible lie she ever told me still sends chills up my spine to this day.  It was many, many years ago. I must have been...maybe 10 or so. I had already gone to bed and had the light out. I didn't have a waste basket, but instead used a brown paper grocery bag for my garbage.

So I'm laying in bed and I hear this tap tap tapping on the paper bag. Huh, that was weird. Tap tap tap. To satisfy my curiosity (remember curiosity killed the cat!), I turned on my bedside light and looked at the bag.

There, shuffling off to Buffalo in its little tap shoes on my garbage bag, was the biggest, blackest spider I had ever seen!  If you can hear a spider walking, you know it's too damn big!  So of course I did what anyone would have done in my position: I threw a shoe at it! But in my terror of course my aim was off and I missed, and the spider stopped to give me a dirty look. That's right: it was big enough for me to see its face! Well, that's how I remember it.  But when it was still on the bag I jumped out of bed and ran out of my room, screaming for my mother.

She came out of her room. "What are you screaming about? What's the matter?"

"There's a giant tarantula in my room!"

"No there isn't."

"Yes it is!" I was shaking. "Please go in my room and kill it!"

"Of course I will. You wait right here."

So Marie, my protector, marched bravely into my room to do battle. A couple of minutes later she came back out. "I took care of it."

"Really? It's gone?"

"Yes it is so go back to bed. Everything's fine."

"Thank you mom!"  I gingerly entered my room. Sure enough: nothing on the bag or my bed and my shoe was by the door. I didn't touch it because I figured there were tarantula guts on it, but I did turn out the light and happily drifted off to sleep.

It wasn't until probably 30 years later that I was reminiscing with Marie about when I was a kid. "Marie, remember that night the big spider was in my room and you killed it?"

"What spider?"

"That big black one that looked like a tarantula. Remember I was scared and you went in my room and killed it?"

A thoughtful expression came over her face. "Oh yes, now I remember. I went in your room but couldn't find the spider. So I just hung around until I figured enough time had passed so you'd think I had killed the spider. But it was still in there somewhere!"

My mouth dropped open. "You lied to me?"

"I had to. Otherwise you would have never gotten to sleep."

Yep: little and evil: that's Marie! But I guess that was a lie I could live with.

Don't Say That Word!

Is it just me, or are there certain words that you just don’t like to hear or say?  My family and friends think I’m nuts but I’m sorry, here’s my list of words I’d rather avoid:

Let’s start with the word nipple.  I didn’t even like typing the word!  I never say it: I’ll say something like, “I saw a guy at the beach and he had nice n-words.”  Yes my friends look at me strangely but they should be used to it by now.  Trust me: I never purposely try to bring it up in conversation!  The weird thing is, everyone has them, babies sometimes use them to get nourishment, but I want no parts of hearing it.  Well, except maybe for “pillow talk” and that’s a whole other subject!

The next word is magma.  Magma is what lava is called before it exits a volcano.  There’s just something about the way it feels in your mouth when you say it: magma, like you have a mouthful of mud or something. Yuck!

Moist is another word that works during “pillow talk”, but not in regular conversation.  It just sounds seamy and smarmy, regardless of what you’re talking about.  Plus it makes your lips assume a strange shape when you say it.

Her Majesty has her list of words she doesn’t like either; and at the top is the word suck.  She isn’t in situation where she engages in “pillow talk” so she doesn’t even have that as a saving grace.  She’s never been able to tell me why she hates the word: I’m just careful not to say it around her!  She also doesn’t like any type of foul language.  Not that she hears any from me, of course…

Brie doesn’t seem to have any words that bother her, but the cats do.  That word is “no”, because that means they can’t get in my lap, or get in the bathtub, or knock all of the Monopoly pieces on the floor when we’re trying to play a game.  They also object to certain tones of voice.  They love when we talk to them like they’re babies: “Oh loony-loony-loony, mom’s tootie-tootie-tootie!”  That has to be said in a high croon that if you used it in public, people would point and laugh.  But think about it: if I said that in a baritone, wouldn’t that be kind of scary?  They don’t like when you use a low tone or even your normal voice.

You know what I think?  They’re secretly laughing at me when I talk like someone demented!  I bet when I go to work, they prance around the house imitating me: “Luna, who am I?  Loony-loony-loony mom!”  Then they fall out and kick their little furry feet in the air while they laugh!  My cats are certainly rude enough to do that, and then greet me like they love me when I come home.  That settles it: I’m getting a kitty-cam!