"Don't be discouraged by a failure. It can be a positive experience. Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success, inasmuch as every discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true, and every fresh experience points out some form of error which we shall afterwards carefully avoid."
John Keats
"Many of life's failures are people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up."
Thomas A. Edison
I love this site as it has a quote for every occasion.
http://www.quotationspage.com/
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
The Middle of the Cycle
Mr. Smith was a regular at the restaurant. Every Saturday and Sunday, he would come down the stairs from the street, using not only his well-worn cane for support, but also the arm of some well-meaning patron or restaurant employee. She looked up from the stack of linens she had been folding and saw him, slowly making his way to the hostess stand where he would be greeted with the usual warmth and, hopefully unbeknownst to him, hidden pity that always accompanied the encounters between the employees of the restaurant and the old man. Immediately, she had gone to help him to the most convenient table for him to reach, which, today, happened to be in her section. She offered him the use of her arm, and he accepted it. This was the first time in the last few months she had been the one to help him to his table, so she was caught completely unawares when the older gentleman's hand clamped down on her like a vice grip. The seeming desperation of his grasp alerted her even more than his ragged appearance had as to the rapid deterioration of his health. She felt the strong burn of tears beginning behind her eyes, as much due to the pain of his fingers digging into her skin as to the realization that the gentle man beside her was becoming more and more feeble. It was heartbreaking to see someone become so frail right before her eyes week after week. How odd that cycle was that began a person's life completely weak and dependent on others to care for him and seemed to end the exact same way. How humiliating to have grown in knowledge and autonomy throughout one's life, only to near the end of it clinging to some waitress' arm, literally shuffling along, making the strongest physical effort possible just to make it to a chair twenty feet away. Was this the normal progression?
As she smiled falsely, trying her best to alter her feelings of pity into a more suitable feeling of sympathy, which tends to sound more dignifying in nature, she thought of her grandfather. He had passed away the previous year due to complications with a stroke, which had completely addled his mind. In fact, the doctor had stated an appropriate way to describe what the clot had done to her grandfather's brain. The tiny pinprick of gathered platelets had shattered it. The briefest of moments had stolen his memories, his awareness, his cleverness, his sense of humor - his dignity. It was not unusual to visit him in the nursing home the family had placed him in afterward only to find him completely unaware of who anyone was, including himself. Gone were the days of games of checkers, which he never let her win, teaching her that life doesn't just hand you things; the long stories of his childhood; the friendly teasing; and the constant reminders of how proud he always was of her. Then it hit her, as she helped Mr. Smith slide into his seat. She may not have a film in the works, or a role in a Broadway show. She may have a Masters and yet still be waiting tables in her thirties. But at least she had that. Her family. Not many people had a family like hers, one in which every member was always ready to say, "I love you, and I'm proud of you." Yes, they had their dysfunction, like every family, but they also had love. And they had each other. And Grandpa.
As she smiled falsely, trying her best to alter her feelings of pity into a more suitable feeling of sympathy, which tends to sound more dignifying in nature, she thought of her grandfather. He had passed away the previous year due to complications with a stroke, which had completely addled his mind. In fact, the doctor had stated an appropriate way to describe what the clot had done to her grandfather's brain. The tiny pinprick of gathered platelets had shattered it. The briefest of moments had stolen his memories, his awareness, his cleverness, his sense of humor - his dignity. It was not unusual to visit him in the nursing home the family had placed him in afterward only to find him completely unaware of who anyone was, including himself. Gone were the days of games of checkers, which he never let her win, teaching her that life doesn't just hand you things; the long stories of his childhood; the friendly teasing; and the constant reminders of how proud he always was of her. Then it hit her, as she helped Mr. Smith slide into his seat. She may not have a film in the works, or a role in a Broadway show. She may have a Masters and yet still be waiting tables in her thirties. But at least she had that. Her family. Not many people had a family like hers, one in which every member was always ready to say, "I love you, and I'm proud of you." Yes, they had their dysfunction, like every family, but they also had love. And they had each other. And Grandpa.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Mulch
Fridays are my days off with the Hubby, and today we spent a good majority of our time taking down our Christmas ornaments. The day after Christmas always seems so anticlimactic, so we generally leave up as much holiday cheer as we can for as long as possible, at least until right before it stops being attributed to a desire to extend the good will of the season and changes to just being too damn lazy to clean up after ourselves.
We actually stopped faithfully watering the Tree a few days ago, so the branches were brittle, and the poor tree had drooped into some semblance of the Wicked Witch of the West melting into oblivion. Because of the thing's dehydration, it was somewhat like finding a needle in a haystack trying to locate all of the ornaments that had once adorned our mighty balsam. The Tree had obviously begun to curl its branches in on itself in the hopes of holding the ornaments for ransom in exchange for the resurgence of its water supply. I, however, am stealthy and quick, with catlike reflexes, and was able to retrieve our decorations and see them safely back into their boxes, there to hibernate for another year until the holiday frivolities should begin again. The Tree resisted in a final hurrah as Hubby attempted to haul it down to the curb where it will be picked up and unceremoniously recycled into mulch (no wonder it was putting up such a fight now that I think about it). The aforementioned hurrah consisted of the dry limbs shooting out needles like a porcupine does quills as they reached out in vain, trying to catch hold of the walls of our narrow stairwell all the while soaking my poor husband in sticky sap.
After the battle was over, I looked around at the aftermath the struggle had left behind. The dead needles littering the floor, and every other flat surface in our apartment. The small pinpricks of blood on my hands and bare feet, remnants of my ornament recovery work. The host of Christmas boxes, packed and ready to be put away. And I wondered what the scene will look like next year. Will it be here? In this apartment? Will it still be the just two of us (and our oft disgruntled beagle)? How will our lives be different? Who knows? I can only hope that I embrace any change that may occur with a little more grace than a dried-up Balsam, going on to the next chapter kicking and screaming. Of course, who knows how I might act in the face of the proverbial wood-chipper? Only time will tell.
We actually stopped faithfully watering the Tree a few days ago, so the branches were brittle, and the poor tree had drooped into some semblance of the Wicked Witch of the West melting into oblivion. Because of the thing's dehydration, it was somewhat like finding a needle in a haystack trying to locate all of the ornaments that had once adorned our mighty balsam. The Tree had obviously begun to curl its branches in on itself in the hopes of holding the ornaments for ransom in exchange for the resurgence of its water supply. I, however, am stealthy and quick, with catlike reflexes, and was able to retrieve our decorations and see them safely back into their boxes, there to hibernate for another year until the holiday frivolities should begin again. The Tree resisted in a final hurrah as Hubby attempted to haul it down to the curb where it will be picked up and unceremoniously recycled into mulch (no wonder it was putting up such a fight now that I think about it). The aforementioned hurrah consisted of the dry limbs shooting out needles like a porcupine does quills as they reached out in vain, trying to catch hold of the walls of our narrow stairwell all the while soaking my poor husband in sticky sap.
After the battle was over, I looked around at the aftermath the struggle had left behind. The dead needles littering the floor, and every other flat surface in our apartment. The small pinpricks of blood on my hands and bare feet, remnants of my ornament recovery work. The host of Christmas boxes, packed and ready to be put away. And I wondered what the scene will look like next year. Will it be here? In this apartment? Will it still be the just two of us (and our oft disgruntled beagle)? How will our lives be different? Who knows? I can only hope that I embrace any change that may occur with a little more grace than a dried-up Balsam, going on to the next chapter kicking and screaming. Of course, who knows how I might act in the face of the proverbial wood-chipper? Only time will tell.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Most Likely to...
Not much happened at the restaurant yesterday. The same people came and got the same spots on the hierarchy
of charts. The thing that tells us
what tables we will be serving, and, incidentally, what we’re worth to the
company (or at least to our direct managers). Needless to say, I stayed consistent with my two-tops. It reminds me a bit of those “Favorite”
lists they come up with in High School.
You know the ones. Most
Beautiful, Most Handsome, Most Likely to Succeed, Funniest, Most Likely to end
up on America’s Most Wanted, etc.
My most memorable brush with this age old tradition was when I was
actually nominated my senior year for Prettiest Eyes. It came as quite a shock since I didn’t realize that my
green eyes were really that exotic, and no one had ever mentioned them
before. I will say it was definitely
a boost for my nerdy, carrot-topped, chubby self-esteem. It was a bit of beauty validation after
having just spent the last two and a half years in braces fighting acne and
(unbeknownst to me at the time) terrible, terrible bangs.
I will never forget a football player strutting past me in the usual “pimp limp” that, for reasons I will never fully comprehend, was a necessary trademark of our fighting Lions in blue and white. As he passed, he glanced my way, smiled, and murmured, “Hey, pretty eyes.” A) He had never spoken to me before in my life, and B) was I really blushing? How embarrassing! How cliché could you get! Yet….it was effective. I’m pretty sure I even let out the teenage girl giggle, an act to which I was certain my wise-beyond-my-years, sophisticated, 17 year old self had never succumbed before.
The day came for the all-school assembly in which the “Favorites” were announced. I had seen my competition (gawked at them in fact, sizing up their less worthy irises) and felt pretty good about my chances. Granted, I had also been nominated as Most Likely to Succeed, but that was child’s play compared to the prestige the other nomination promised. Finally, my category was called; I waited with baited breath, my prepared acceptance speech swimming behind my noteworthy eyes. Then…..I lost. My name was not called. The girl whose name was called was a girl who wore contacts. Colored contacts! And not even normal colored contacts. They were purple! I lost the title of Prettiest Eyes to a girl with purple contacts! Really? As I sat there, too deflated to move, I realized something that day. You may have pretty eyes, but they need to be artificial to be the prettiest. Now, however, it dawns on me that the reason I did not win in my category that day (I didn’t get Most Likely to Succeed either) was because they didn’t have the right category listed, the one I would have been a shoe-in to win. Most Likely to Have the Feminine Balls to Marry a Hot, Intelligent Man and Move to New York to Wait Tables for Unappreciative Bosses and Patrons While Pursuing Her Real Dreams. Put that in your contacts and look through it, pretty eyes!
I will never forget a football player strutting past me in the usual “pimp limp” that, for reasons I will never fully comprehend, was a necessary trademark of our fighting Lions in blue and white. As he passed, he glanced my way, smiled, and murmured, “Hey, pretty eyes.” A) He had never spoken to me before in my life, and B) was I really blushing? How embarrassing! How cliché could you get! Yet….it was effective. I’m pretty sure I even let out the teenage girl giggle, an act to which I was certain my wise-beyond-my-years, sophisticated, 17 year old self had never succumbed before.
The day came for the all-school assembly in which the “Favorites” were announced. I had seen my competition (gawked at them in fact, sizing up their less worthy irises) and felt pretty good about my chances. Granted, I had also been nominated as Most Likely to Succeed, but that was child’s play compared to the prestige the other nomination promised. Finally, my category was called; I waited with baited breath, my prepared acceptance speech swimming behind my noteworthy eyes. Then…..I lost. My name was not called. The girl whose name was called was a girl who wore contacts. Colored contacts! And not even normal colored contacts. They were purple! I lost the title of Prettiest Eyes to a girl with purple contacts! Really? As I sat there, too deflated to move, I realized something that day. You may have pretty eyes, but they need to be artificial to be the prettiest. Now, however, it dawns on me that the reason I did not win in my category that day (I didn’t get Most Likely to Succeed either) was because they didn’t have the right category listed, the one I would have been a shoe-in to win. Most Likely to Have the Feminine Balls to Marry a Hot, Intelligent Man and Move to New York to Wait Tables for Unappreciative Bosses and Patrons While Pursuing Her Real Dreams. Put that in your contacts and look through it, pretty eyes!
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