Don't Think. DO! or What the Campers Taught Me

The other day, I was taking "first round" drink orders for a couple of ladies who were obviously meeting for the first time in a while; the term for whom, in server language, is "campers."  I understand completely the reasoning behind this phenomenon of sitting and nursing a bottle of wine for hours on end while enjoying each others' company.  I, myself, have been known to chat it up with a friend with whom I haven't spoken for a while.  Everyone needs to catch up now and then, so although I know the table is not going to turn very quickly, I try to tap into some sense of human compassion for the neglected friendship in front of me and just secretly hope they ask me to keep the drinks coming.  In this particular instance, my empathy flowed a bit more freely as it wasn't my table to turn anyway.  I was taking the drink order to help out a fellow server in distress, who was, at that moment, otherwise engaged by an elderly couple, obviously tourists from another country, yet terribly excited to try out their limited English on a sweet, young American waitress.


As I was jotting down the name of the wine the ladies in front of me had chosen, one of them mentioned that she always writes better on her thesis when she'd had a couple glasses.  Trying to be polite, I asked what her thesis was about, and she went into a long, detailed explanation of her MBA thesis on the effect of Platonic relationships when dealing with employee retention in the workplace.  Right before I began to tune out her words and just smile dumbly, nodding my head in pretended interest, I actually asked what she had found out thus far.  I don't know what possessed me to encourage the conversation.  Maybe I was just tired, causing my normal defenses to weaken. The thesis writer went on to explain that she was frustrated as her findings were proving to be inconclusive.  Apparently, 50% of people participating in the survey said they would stay if offered more money at a different job because of the positive relationships they had at their current job.  The other 50% said they would leave if offered more money in spite of having positive relationships at their current workplace.  The same, she said, was true of companies offering professional development for their employees.  As I processed what she had been rambling on about, I was actually pretty surprised.  I would have thought that relationships, positive or negative, would have played a much bigger role in retention.


It got me thinking about why I would stay in a job.  As an actor, I often have to just take a job in order to make financial ends meet while I pursue what I really want to do.  At the same time, the schedule has to be flexible enough for me to be able to go on auditions, go to shoots, be at rehearsal, etc.  In the profession, we call them "survival" jobs.  The name itself is a bit depressing.  Who wants to go through life merely surviving?  Artists, especially, are known for saying they want to make a difference in the world through what they do.  How do we end up, then, getting ourselves caught up in the hustle and bustle of life, forgetting or becoming disillusioned by the seeming impossibility of actually doing what it was we dreamed of doing in the first place?  Well, we could just do it, but then we'd be homeless, hungry, and in the middle of a subway car with a purple drum and a monotone chant about a way to make ends meet until we get back on our feet (those who take the N or Q trains on a regular basis get my meaning here). 


We get caught up in the corporate world because that seems to be the only way left for us to survive in this economy, in this culture, in this life.  There seems to be a whole generation of folk, and I most definitely include myself, floundering around, trying to figure out what the heck they're doing here.  Something innately tells us that a liberal arts education is valid and important, but somehow we have lost the practicality of it in the midst of our ideals.  Concepts are hard to turn into pragmatism for many.  Not for all, but it is rare for me personally to meet someone who is adept at marrying the two.  We (by We I mean those around 25-35) are drifting around, fully cognizant that we have all this knowledge of art, history, literature, philosophy, and the like, but not really sure how to apply it to a world that is on the one hand shrinking faster and faster every year, and on the other, spreading further and further apart, particularly financially.  


I have no answer for this dilemma,  I wish I did.   Or maybe I should just take the advice of every inspirational acting coach in the universe and decide, "Don't think, DO."

Stalled

I was clearing dirty dishes from a table, precariously balancing knives and forks with two fingers while hoisting our unimaginably heavy platters onto the shaking platform of my left forearm, when I heard the all too familiar rumbling behind me.  The sound always presents itself in the form of a muffled buzzing noise, much like that of some sort of flying insect, but then grows in pitch and volume, rising and falling in an unsteady rhythm.  This sound of which I speak, dear reader, strikes fear and discord into the heart of server and manager alike at my place of employment.  Why, you ask?  It is the sound of none other than midtown Manhattan's own crazy-old-lady-who-persistently-and-unabashedly-has-frequent-shouting-matches-with-the-unknown-unheard-voices-in-her-head.


The City is well known for its quirky characters.  The indoor atrium outside the restaurant where I work is a veritable microcosm, divided into small communities.  There are the "Atrium Church-goers" - those who hold their own form of services in the middle of said Atrium, complete with their own Reverend and Bibles in large print lettering.  There is the "Homeless Town Hall Political Committee" - our friendly neighborhood homeless politicians who are always ready and willing to discuss the economic downturn and its various solutions at great length.  There are the "Doll Folk" - this is the strangest group by far; they have made costumes for life-sized dolls, often with fantasy themes such as superheroes, vampires, and other mystical creatures.  The "Doll Folk" proceed to display their creations with great pride and an obvious sense of fulfillment in their artistic achievements.  There are the "Role Playing Gamers" - I don't really know much about the games, but there are numerous tables set up and devoted to charts, cards, and fantastical imaginary trips that I'm sure are exhilarating and intellectually rewarding to all involved.  I have never played Dungeons and Dragons myself, but everyone I know who has is certainly and exuberantly in favor of the activity.  There are many other groups not listed here that call the Atrium home, but the individual mentioned above is not really a member of any of these groups, noted or otherwise.


Back to the incident at hand, I glanced up from my stack of sticky leftovers compiled of rib bones, puddles of unused ketchup and mustard, and dishes of ponzu sauce that were threatening to escape the pile by falling to the hard floor, where they would shatter, leaving a wet, broken mess of ceramics and bits of sushi rice.  Trying to reign in the renegade saucers, I simultaneously eyed the lady's progress through the restaurant.  Immediately, I knew where she was headed.  My eyes searched the dining room, hoping that one of my coworkers had also noticed her presence and could guess her intentions as well as I.  I caught the eye of one of the other girls who shared my section of the dining room.  She nodded briefly and promptly sprang into action.  I saw her quickly maneuver through the crowded aisles (it was a Saturday night), narrowly missing heavily laden arms of servers, small children, and heedless guests.  She managed to reach her object just in time, barely brushing past a portly gentleman standing squarely in front of her destination - the Ladies Restroom.  Deftly, she squeezed past him, muttering apologies, swung open the door, and slid inside right before her opponent in this unorthodox foot race could force her own slight form past the large figure blocking the path.  As the door fell shut again, I knew what was happening on the other side without having to see it with my own eyes.  After making it into the ladies restroom, my colleague had launched herself into the handicap stall, there to take up residence until it was safe to come out again.  You see, we knew from experience what would follow if this particular NYC character was allowed to seclude herself in this particular confined space. It had occurred countless times before, and never to the benefit of anyone who had encountered it.  This woman would lock herself in the bathroom for an inordinate amount of time and proceed to have argument after argument with herself, cursing and swearing like the proverbial sailor.  After she tired of berating whoever it was she was talking to, she would come out of the handicap stall and then start in on fanatically scolding anyone else who came into the bathroom, no matter their age, appearance, or apparent social status.  In some ways, this individual is probably one of the most unprejudiced people I have ever encountered.  She hates everyone and yells at them equally.


It was a good ten minutes later before I saw the beleaguered countenance of this petite ball of fury throw open the door of the ladies' restroom and storm through the bar area, harassing everyone who stood in her way.  She is so short that I could not actually see her progress through the crowd, but her movement was evidenced by the astonished faces and stumbling forward of various bar patrons as she pushed her way past them, intent on insulting each one individually.  Finally, the top of her small head emerged and she left the restaurant the same way she had entered, buzzing and muttering all the while.  A few seconds later, the wary face of my fellow waitress appeared at the door of the ladies' restroom, her eyes quickly searching for signs that it was safe to leave her post.  Again, we locked eyes; I smiled and gave a quick nod, a sort of "all clear" sign.  She heaved a deep sigh, grinned, and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, "All in the line of duty."  I chuckled as she again attempted to slide past the corpulent man, who strangely seemed to take no notice of the saga that had unfolded around him, or of anything other than his beer for that matter.  I looked around the dining room to see that everything had returned to normal.  Servers were whisking back and forth between tables, unruly children ran up and down the aisles while their weary parents pretended not to notice, and I was once again weighed down with endless plates of leftover food.  I wondered how many people had actually been aware of the incident.  Not many, I bet.  Just me, the crazy lady, and my brave coworker, fighting courageously in the trenches (or handicap stalls?) of Manhattan food service.

A Girl's Best Friend is Not Her Diamonds

Last night, we had to rush our sweet beagle to the emergency vet clinic.  It was probably one of the scariest things I've ever had happen.  I was in the kitchen getting dinner ready to put in the oven, when I heard a loud thud in the other room.  When I walked into the living room, D'Artagnan, our beagle (yes, he is named for a character from The Three Musketeers - the book, NOT the Disney movie), was writhing around on his back, awake but unresponsive, and completely not in control of his body.  I was terrified, alone, and armed only with my iPhone, with which I promptly attempted to locate the nearest emergency vet clinic.  The closest one was in Manhattan, just over the bridge, which might as well have been an hour away with no car.  It's times like these when I horribly miss having a car.  Public transportation is great until you are hit with a true emergency.


After a couple of minutes, he seemed to come back to himself somewhat, responding when I said his name and regaining the voluntary use of his limbs.  The whole time I kept thinking, "Man.  I am Awful in a crisis."  I was a total mess, sobbing uncontrollably and, for lack of a better phrase, freaking out.  I tried to mutter soothing comfort to my poor dog, who was obviously scared as well, not knowing what on earth was happening to him.  I'm sure my tension probably only added to his stress.


We met the Hubby on his way home as we were making our way to the train.  At this point, it seemed like the worst was over; Dart seemed better, he was able to walk, and he seemed to have his senses back.  Our hope ignited, we thought we might just take him in to the vet the next day.  That idea was short-lived as we realized the minute we walked back into our apartment that he was having another attack.  Thus, we packed up and headed to the emergency vet clinic.  Damn the train!  We were taking a taxi!  I had wrapped him in a towel to keep him warm and in case he had an accident, but I was still anxious that a cab driver would take one look at the dog and blow past us with an unfriendly shrug, or, even worse, complete indifference.  Due to the lack of taxis cruising around our Queens neighborhood, we were forced to take a car service, which I hardly ever do since they ALWAYS charge exorbitant amounts.  This, however, was an emergency, and I was compelled to lay aside my "yellow cab vs. car service" prejudice.


When we reached the animal hospital, they took him right back to do tests, monitor him, and ultimately thwart another episode should one arise.  As we waited, I played a lot of the "what if" game.  What if I taken him in sooner?  What if he had another attack?  What if this was in reaction to something I had done or not done?  What if he died?  That last "what if" was definitely the kicker.  Dart has been a member of our family almost as long as we have been married.  We raised him from the time he was six weeks old.  What would a life without him in the world be like?  I know pets don't live forever, but for some reason, we seem to take them for granted, thinking they will always be there, tail wagging and waiting at the door when we come home from work, stealing unmentionable things out of the bathroom waste basket, and eyeing our dinner askance while pondering the best strategies of getting said dinner off of our plates and into their furry little tummies.  My dad would say, "Remember, he's just a dog," and I know he's right, but he is MY DOG.


I am writing this right now with a warm little beagle body nestled against me on the couch.  The Hubby and I were able to bring him home, but the waiting continues to find out what is causing him to be sick. In any case, this latest misadventure in our lives is definitely a lesson in mindfulness, a reminder to not take things, people, and a girl's best friend (I am referring to her dog, not her diamonds) for granted.

Carrying on in the Midst of the Smell

I actually had two auditions in the last two days.  They were my first auditions in the past... oh...let's say couple of months.  It was definitely good to get back in the game, as it were.  Especially considering I've been having a slight meltdown over the last few weeks.  I've been having moments of slightly-past-quarter-life-crisis, in which I stand in the back of the kitchen of the restaurant, sneaking toasted almonds from my secret stash and polishing silverware with my tears while bemoaning the fact that I wait tables for a living in spite of having a Master's degree.  Not that there's anything wrong with waiting tables as a profession.  Some people are never happier than in the hustling and bustling environment of a busy restaurant.  I, dear reader, am not one of those folk.  I chose waiting tables since the schedule is flexible (for auditioning purposes), and the pace tends to be quicker than that of, say, retail, which I did for two and a half years before grad school.  Retail made me to want to stab my eyes out with a pencil rather than go to work one more day.


It was retail that brought me to my original quarter life crisis, the one that prompted the journey to obtain my Master's in the first place.  I remember it was New Year's Day, and as per our  tradition, the Hubby and I were analyzing our places in the world - together, professionally, creatively, figuratively, etc.  We both were wondering what exactly had happened to the past few years.  You know those years.  The years between college and the Now.  Well, that heavy duty conversation, in which I revealed that retail was making me die a little more inside every day, led us both to pursue furthering our educations, and, ultimately, guided us here - to a tiny apartment in a city that often smells strangely of feet and pot, thousands of miles away from our families and any semblance of decent weather (except yesterday which was glorious and curiously out of place for February), and a day job that frequently makes me long for a "normal" life with a paid vacation, 401K, and a house - a house that I own and in which I don't live above my anxious Italian landlady who refuses to allow us to use the brand new washer and dryer in the basement for fear of the "wear and tear" it will cause.


I've been reading a lot lately on patience and contentment, definitely not my strongest characteristics.  I am hoping that some revelation will lodge itself in my psyche, causing me to be at peace with my situation.  Not complacent, but less prone to hide in the back of the kitchen eating contraband almonds and shaking my fist at the sky while silently screaming, "I have a Master's damn it!" (in full Shakespearean voice of course).  Guess I'll just have to wait and see.  For now, I'm trying to remember to be grateful for the auditions, my landlady, and the overpowering smell of feet and pot.


P.S.  When the Hubby read this entry, he promptly responded with this little ditty.  Maybe you'll enjoy it as well. Cheers!

The Poncho, however, is a Mystery

I started to do an entry last week on dreams in honor of Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday, so I fully intended to continue in that vein today.  I had the idea to discuss folks' dreams in general.  Aspirations, goals, ambitions, heart's desires, and the like.  This entry, however, took on a life of its own, as you will see here.


Last night, I had a dream.  I dreamt I was walking along in a semi-outdoor outlet mall (at least I think it was an outlet mall).  When I began to notice a faint draught coming from the direction of my nether regions, I looked down to discover, to my horror, that I was completely unclothed.  That's right.  Not even naked, but neh-ked, as we say in Tejas.  Not a stitch.  I spent the rest of the dream trying, unsuccessfully I might add, to find clothing to cover myself.  I seem to remember trying on some sort of weird red poncho thing that had several different possible configurations, which the faceless salesperson in my dream (I was at an outlet mall) kept trying to show me.  Strange that he/she never seemed to notice my lack of attire.  I awoke this morning, relieved to notice that it had been only a dream.  Sometimes those things seem so real.


Curiosity provoked me to look up elements of the dream online.  Considering today is my day off from the restaurant, I actually had a little time on my hands - although I do feel the stack of papers I was trying to organize this week eyeing the back of my head maliciously as they lie, neglected, on the dining table behind me at the moment.  I boldly say, "Wait your turn 'papers-I-should-probably-shred'!" and now return to my narrative.  I found a really interesting dream interpretation website, originally to look up the Naked Dream, but I found a host of other elements dreams can supposedly infer regarding your current subconscious state.  According to the website, dreams where your wardrobe is not merely malfunctioning, but is in fact, nonexistent, indicates:


 "vulnerability or feelings of shamefulness. You may be hiding something and are afraid that others can see right through you. Metaphorically, clothes are a means of concealment. Depending on the type of clothes you wear, you can hide your identity or be someone else. But without them, everything is hanging out for all to see. You are exposed and left without any defenses. Thus your naked dream may be telling you that you are trying to be something that you really are not. Or you are fearful of being ridiculed and disgraced. Such anxieties are elevated especially in situations where you are trying to impress others ... You may be expressing fears or apprehension in revealing your true feelings in such situations."

Well, no shocker there, really.  Actors are constantly feeling vulnerable.  Casting directors, agents, you name it, they judge it!  In my chosen field (my real one, not the waiting tables one), when am I NOT trying to impress someone?  I know, I know.  I should be thinking of casting folk more as "wanting me to do well" or as some sort of benevolent objective observers.  It is sometimes difficult to do that, however, when all I hear them say is "Thank you.  Next..."

Anyway, next I looked up the color red, for the red poncho, and that means I am feeling tired and lethargic.  Coincidentally, seeing a redhead in your dream, which I am by the way, means you need more "spontaneity and vitality in your life."  I didn't actually see myself, though, so maybe I'm already spontaneous and vital enough.  With all that spunk, no wonder I'm so tired.

Next, I looked up the outlet mall.  Dreaming of a mall "represents your attempts in making a favorable impression on someone. The mall is also symbolic of materialism and the need to keep up with the trends, fads, and/or the latest technology."  Probably a relic of the jealousy I'm harboring since my husband purchased the new iPhone 4S.  Oh yeah - and the favorable impression thing.

They didn't have a meaning for the poncho.

As I mulled all this over, I considered the fact that I have often had these types of dreams in my life.  Usually it's during tech week of a show (or the week before opening for the non-theatre reader)  This is the week when everything (lights, sound, costumes, etc) is coming together.  Thus, it's falling apart at the same time.  It's during that week that the actor begins to wonder, "Where did all that great work during rehearsal go?"  And. "Why in Heavens did they cast me in this?  Better yet, why did I think I could do it?"  It is also of this week that one of my professors in grad school said, "Just remember that you're right where you should be."  Meaning, don't worry about those feelings of inadequacy, the bouts of anxiety, and in my case, the naked dreams. Everything will come together in the end.  Acknowledge that those things will always happen during tech week, but the fear will go away to be replaced by, hopefully, nothing but the world of the character and the play.

So what's happening now?  I'm not in a show.  Not in the middle of tech week.  What's with the naked dream?  Then it hit me. I am embarking on a voyage in hitherto uncharted waters for me.  I have actually spent a lot of time lately on creative pursuits other than my beloved acting.  And it's scary.  Anything new is.  I have no idea what I'm doing or where it will lead me.  I have formal training in a completely different area and none since high school in the other.  But at least I know this.  I do have that well-meaning salesperson and terribly confusing red poncho to help cover me up.  Even if I don't know what it means. 

10:58

I looked at the clock.  10:55 p.m.  Perfect!  "I might be out of here before 11:10 tonight!"  I thought to myself smugly.  All my tables had been cleaned; my charge slips and cash were all in order.  All I had to do was run my "checkout" and I would be a free woman!  At least until the next day when I had to be back.  The balls of my feet, my lower back, and my knees ached, telltale evidence of working two double-shifts in a row.  Tomorrow, however, I only had one shift left, and then (drumroll, please) the much anticipated DAY OFF.  The comfort and ecstasy that accompanied the mere thought of those two tiny words swept over me like the bubbles that would make up the luxuriating bath in which I would be soaking later.

I turned around, facing the grill, which stands right in front of the entrance to our restaurant, to reply to something one of the line cooks had just said to me when I saw Them.  They were running, literally running, through the heavy revolving door and down the stairs that led into our version of a lobby.  At 10:58 p.m., 10:58 p.m. mind you, out of breath and giggling, the two girls, probably no more than 20 years old, rushed up to the hostess' stand and blurted out the words that strike fear into the heart of any waiter or waitress.  "Are you closed yet?"  

The hostess whom they had verbally accosted drew in a sharp breath as the color drained from her face.  She smiled weakly and said softly, "Not yet."  It was true.  We didn't technically close until 11:00.  And it was only 10:58.  The entire front of house staff had frozen where they stood.  I caught a glimpse of one fellow server with a tortilla chip raised halfway to her mouth, motionlessly watching the terrifying scene that was unfolding before her.  I turned back at our ashen-faced hostess, who looked up from the chart she had consulted, which told her which server was next to be seated.  Grabbing two menus from the stack in front of her, she said robotically, "Right this way, ladies," as she led them into the dining room.  Slowly, her eyes swept the room, searching, before they finally rested on, you guessed it, Me.  My heart sank as I let out a long sigh.  I felt a hand clasp my shoulder and give it a squeeze.

"Sorry, girl."  That was all my sympathetic co-worker could get out.  He simply shook his head, trying, not well, to hide his feelings of relief.  "Ah well," I responded, "c'est la vie."

"Huh?"

"Never mind."  I shook my head, forced a smile onto my weary countenance, and turned to face my fate.

"Good evening, ladies.  May I start you with a beverage?"

Two hours later, I left the restaurant, not much the worse for wear, and with a few extra (they did tip me 20% exactly) dollars in my pocket.  Was I exhausted? Yes.  Did I wish I could have left two hours earlier?  Most definitely.  Did I have to be back at the restaurant in nine hours?  You betcha.  Was I happy to have made a little more money than I would have without my late table?  Sure.  What I really gained, though, was the furthering of my conviction that everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, should at some point be required to wait tables at some point in their lifetime.  I left, contented with the prospect that the day may come for those girls when they too will have their own metaphorical 10:58 moment.  To be fair, I just hoped they would get at least the appropriate, albeit metaphorical, 20%.

Wild, Unkempt, and Definitely Without Hairspray

It's been a couple days since I posted, and last night as I was lying in bed, I could think of a hundred topics I wanted to tackle.  Well, maybe "a hundred" is exaggerating a bit, but hey...what's life without a few instances of hyberbole?  So it wasn't a hundred, but there definitely were quite a number of things running through my mind.  Isn't it interesting how when I want to go to sleep, I can't help but keep a list flowing through my brain like the credits at the end of a movie, but when I actually want to make time to put a dent in said "list," I can't think of a thing that I thought I was thinking of before?  Confusing?  It sounded good in my head anyway.


All that to finally get to the point, which is, I discovered something about myself today.  I, gentle reader, am in fact a bit of .... a rebel.  I know.  It's difficult to believe that someone so kind, so sweet, so seemingly "girl next door" could be rebellious against authority, but it's true.  Case in point, the restaurant where I work is quite strict in regards to attire, particularly accessories and hairstyles.  Our earrings cannot dangle or be larger than a dime.  Our nail polish must be clear or natural looking.  Our flyaway hairs must be tamed into submission with hair spray, and the mass of hair itself must be pulled back into a bun, braid, or ponytail that sports an elastic band for every two inch segment.  Not to mention bangs.  Bangs must be pulled back with a bobby pin or barrette of some sort so as not to fall flirtatiously into our eyes.  In short, we must try to look as much as possible like the ladies in Robert Palmer's "Addicted to Love" video from the 80s (except for the makeup - way too risque for the business lunch set).  I, however, do my best to go rogue whenever possible.  My red locks shun the barrette with which the Man tries to subdue them.  Sometimes, I pull hair out in loose tendrils just to see how much I can get away with.  I wear jewel-toned shiny earrings (no bigger than a dime, mind you), but they do hang down a fraction of an inch beneath my chubby earlobes (fodder for another story entirely on another day perhaps).  I refuse to shine my non-slip waiter shoes.  And sometimes, if I'm feeling really feisty, I wear socks with stripes at the top.  To be fair, the striped part is hidden under my pants, which I hemmed myself by the way, and which fall half an inch longer than management would like.  But that's just the kind of girl I am, ladies and gentlemen.  I answer to no one.  I am an autonomous entity that goes it alone. Wild, unkempt, and definitely without hairspray.