Displaced Anger

Working with the public is interesting.

It doesn't matter what your patron/customer/guest does or says, you have to remain calm, you have to pretend it's not bothering you, and you have to smile. Or, at the very least, you have to not yell. Or scream. Or appear angry in any way.

Sometimes... sometimes, this is hard.

So, in those cases, when being nice is just too much trouble because they (patron/customer/guest) are really trying every last frayed nerve you've got, you displace your anger.

It's not an unusual concept - it's the natural order of things. Okay, for example, my dog Kota once heard a gaggle of geese flying over/past the house. He heard honking and commotion and he was pissed. Who knows why. Now, Kota doesn't get pissed very often (except once, at Beck, at Eric's house), and so the time with the geese is especially memorable - he was panting, barking and running around like a lunatic. The point is: He couldn't actually be angry at the geese. They existed unseen, they were just an annoying sound that he couldn't identify or assault into submission, and therefore, Kota displaced his anger and attacked his toy bear. I mean... he really shook the thing, too. Like, ran over, took the bear ("Rupert"), and shook it back and forth repeatedly. Take that, geese!

So, there you go. Displaced anger and inaccurate anger management are just traits that can be associated with one's existence if you are any kind of oxygen-dependant thing wandering the planet. And, tonight was no exception.

I displaced my anger. I had shitty patrons/customers/guests that pissed me off and I displaced my anger. I yelled at my coworkers, I swore at my boss... I acted like I act when I'm being a nasty brat. But, I had to. If it didn't make it's way out to the people who I can hug at the end of the night and apologize to, then it would make it's way out to the people who pay my rent.

This is the curse of the restaurant industry.

I think what makes it harder at the restaurant I work in, is knowing people through the whole "Six Degrees of New Bedford" thing and then knowing - inadvertently - the people who piss "you" off. Maybe you've seen them on Facebook, commenting and "liking" on other people's walls. Maybe you've waited on them 100 times before. Maybe you know where they work, what they do, and who they are more than you'd like to admit. Maybe you've even worked with them before and therefore are increasingly irritated when it appears they have zero understanding as to how things in the "normal" world of waitressing work.

Maybe I'm just pissed that sometimes nobody seems to understand how hard servers work for what little money they make.

Maybe I'm just bitter.

I'm ending this blog post before it gets nasty. It's heading in that direction, I think.

Just a final note:

I do like my job. Sometimes I just wish people knew what it was like to do my job. Tonight, according to my computer report, I served 45 people. Forty-five people got a happy, smiling, efficient as all holy hell server that they tipped out of societal obligation without realizing that I make three dollars an hour, love my job, and rely on these social constructs that encourage people to tip for service.

Do me a favor. Next time you go out to eat, or buy a drink at a bar, or pick up take-out, tip your server or bartender or take-out person as if it were you, and as if it were the thirtieth and rent's due on the first, and as if you really appreciate the fact that they are smiling and helpful and courteous no matter what. No matter what.

Thanks.

Oh, and if they are not courteous and helpful, then fuck it.

That is all.

Nine Innings

I have a thing for the number nine.

My bestie's getting married on 9/9 and I'm just superstitious enough to think that's for the best. My phone number is compiled of numerically consecutive multiples of nine. Often the ninth of any month is the best day.

I could go on and really take you through the crazy, but I'll refrain.

For the purpose of this post, you need only remember the awesomeness of nine innings of baseball.

..........

Have you ever smiled so much, and for so long, that your face literally starts to ache? 

If so, then you are one of the lucky ones. You are one of those people who can stand to exceed the physical limitations of how happy one can possibly bee. (That spelling is not a typo. That spelling is an homage to Eric Marshall.)

Last night, my smile kicked my ass. It was one of those face-hurting nights.

You know, I've been having more and more of those nights lately, and that's pretty awesome. My cheeks are gettin' a sick workout.

(Flash to scene: I'm standing in front of one of those huge gym mirrors dressed in full sweatsuit attire and wearing a sweatband, smiling and unmoving. A really muscular bro walks by and pauses for a moment, studies my determinate stance, then says: "Nice cheeks, dude." He walks away, shaking his head, he is both in awe of my insanely toned cheek muscles and reminding himself to work on his cheek muscles during his cardio tomorrow. This illustrative digression has been brought to you by Katie's Wicked Good Mood.)

So, last night. Smiling. Right...

Last night Nick & I went to the Red Sox game, pretty much on a whim.

On Monday, while driving back from Vermont with my parents, we had a textversation:

Nick: "Do you have plans Wednesday night?"
Katie: "Nope. You?"
N: "I just got tickets to the Red Sox game."
Kt: "And you want to take me?"
N: "I do!"

Immediately following that message I may have squealed and clapped, which alerted my mother - who was driving - that something mayjah was goin' down.

Mom: "What's going on?"
Kt: "Nick got tickets to the Sox game Wednesday!"
M: "Oh! Nice! Is he taking you?"

Now, I'm a nice person, and I do enjoy watching others succeed and have nice things... but I wouldn't exactly be squealing in excitement for Nick's good fortune if he got the Sox tickets and was just letting me know.

Just sayin'.

Anyway, so, we arrive at a rainy Fenway park to attend what I've then realized is my first night game ever. Also, it was the first game at which I did not purchase a single twenty billion dollar Solo cup of beer. Cheers.

As is typical, as soon as I stepped ontoYawkey Way, I felt like a kid and I started smiling like an idiot. Then, I feel the Fenway vibe turning it into one of those goofy grins that I can't really control. Seeing NESN & Tom Caron makes me smile every time. Then, Eck stories made me smile. Oh, and Bill Lee made me smile. And, of course Nick made me smile. Then a Papi HR made me smile...

I was overwhelmed... in the good way.

So, okay, the abbreviated version of our journey at Fenway went something like this:

Stage One: Fenway Franks.
Stage Two: Seats in the bleachers, row 37.
Stage Three: The incarnation of Chris in row 36.
Stage Four: Drying off.
Stage Five: Walking around.
Stage Six: Being ushered into the second row inches from the Twins' dugout to watch the rain disappear and the Sox win.

Go ahead, you can reread the sixth stage.

Got it? Yeah...

Now, I've left out some stuff, because I want to let Nick tell you how that all went down. It's only right... most of the Fenway freakiness was happening to him. I was just a willing participant along for a lucky, lucky ride to a field box at Fenway Park and half piece of baseball card bubble gum.

Oh, yeah, and an awesome cheek workout.

Another Down, One More to Go

I finished my second to last semester of grad school today.

Let me just type that again, this time I'll try a different formula.

I have one semester of grad school left.

One more time. Just 'cause.

In less than nine months, I'll have a master's degree.

This morning, I hit "send" on my final assignment email, the one with three attached files, at approximately ten o'clock. I was in the dining room of a Comfort Inn in St. Johnsbury, Vermont, and had just finished an airy, buttery piece of coffee cake courtesy of the continental breakfast. My headphones were playing Yeasayer, and near me a large fat man with a limp - who was wearing flannel and too much cologne - was thoroughly enjoying his oatmeal. He was eating alone and it made me pretty sad. I hate to watch people eat alone. Next to his table was a family of Bible Beaters. Well, okay. I don't know that they were Jesus Freaks, but they looked just like the type. They all smiled weirdly and wore collared shirts, even the kids. There's nothin' right about kids wearing collared shirts and khakis on a Monday morning at ten o'clock. And that smile... You know the type. The type of people that are trying to sell you on Jesus. I don't want any Jesus. Jesus isn't in my budget.

Anyway. I hit send.

Some time later that afternoon, while I basked in the sunlight of a mid-May afternoon in the back seat of my parent's car, I realized that, although I was looking forward to tonight, and tomorrow, and the next day, and all the lovely things I planned on doing with people that make me so, so happy, I was looking forward to something else: The end. And as of ten o'clock this morning, the end is closer than ever before. The end of a journey that I started almost two years ago. One that I started because a certain person was cocky enough to push me towards a graduate school application. One that I started despite not being comfortable letting people read what I wrote.

And now look at me. Bloggin'. Bein' published. Readin' what I write aloud at a microphone.

Okay, the published thing and the reading aloud thing only happened once. But, still. That's one more time than I ever thought I would have been capable of at this time two years ago.

So. Pretty cool.

I'm a writer. And I'm going to continue to be a writer.

And I'm going to have readers.

Wow.

I like my life.

A Long, Long Time... But None At All

Have you ever had a moment where you feel like you've been somewhere forever and never all at the same time? If not, this might sound crazy... so, I'll try and explain. Okay, for example, the physical reminders of a place are present, and constant, and remind you of a thousand other moments in time that have existed in a similar "place," but you yourself are very, very different.

The smell of a thunderstorm in the spring reminds me of late nights in high school. The smell of rain in the morning, when grass and leaves can't shake the dew and the sea is rocky, remind me of boarding the bus for Sea Lab as a kid. The smell of a fire burning reminds me of Vermont in any season. The smell of fireworks reminds me of being a girl in a hooded sweatshirt, waiting for a boy to hold my hand and tell me that the sparklers were as pretty as I thought they were. The smell of cigarettes and bleach reminds me of the smell of laundry when I was sixteen and he was nineteen.

I guess I'm a sensory memory person. Words escape me. Lines leave me. Laughter fades But, the sensory feeling of a particular situation will forever and ever put me right back to that place... whatever the place might be.

The same, of course, can be said for songs. They're like cheap time travel.

I'm in the midst of making a mix "tape." The theme of the CD is "Audiobiographical," which is an ingenious name we came up with, if I can say so - ingeeeenious. I mean, I like puns, and this is one of my new favorites.

What makes this so hard is that everything... every noise... every sound, lyric, instrument that I hear has a place in my memory. So, making a history out of music that made the history is especially difficult.
Because... what doesn't count? And, what doesn't mean something?

I can remember the car where I first heard The Get Up Kids. I can remember the boy who wrote "One Two Three Four = Love" on label maker plastic tape when I listened to Neutral Milk Hotel. I know the feeling of standing in the Met Cafe and hearing The Promise Ring, someone making fun of Davey's lisp. I can remember driving in a car on the long commute to Worcester State and singing along to The Secret Stars in hushed unison... "Hearts don't break, the division is innate, do you need to brush up on cardiology."I remember the first mix tape ever made for me: "Bad Mix," and I remember the playlist.

I remember.

But, there is a lot that I don't remember.

I don't remember how it was in my house from about 11 until I was almost seventeen.

I don't remember high school after I stopped caring.

I don't remember being me in junior high school; but, my besties disagree - apparently I've been Me for longer than I can remember.

That makes me sad.

But, as I make this mix tape and think each song selection through with the same effort it takes to recreate the actual moment... I remember.

Sort of.