The Thaw

The sky pounded out a half foot of snow on Friday evening. On the Tuesday prior, I was wandering through a soft, humid haze which emanated from acres and acres of defrosting lawns. Today is Easter Sunday, the fourth day of spring, and though I find myself, again, in a winter white world, I’m happy to report that the sidewalks are mostly clear. Ice doesn’t form so much when the ground is no longer frozen solid. It’s March in Michigan and I like to rally around the small victories.

You see, in Michigan the trees don’t bloom until the second half of April. By June, you can be reasonably assured that you won’t see your breath in a chilly breeze until September, but there are no guarantees in April or May. Winter usually suffers a slow death, so I find myself savoring all the quiet little harbingers of spring. The dawn of Daylight Saving Time is the first tangible reminder of summer’s existence, and I love that it now falls so early in the year. The evening is bright and that’s a change you can really feel. The vernal equinox – the moment when the sun’s direct light rises above the equator – is a more subtle, but no less significant change. This is the start of daytime’s six-month reign over night. To me, this is the true New Year’s Day.

That may be because I was born this time of year. I’ve always felt like I was really lucky to born in April, when there is so much promise of fun times ahead and all the Michigan people are experiencing every warm day as a moment of mass euphoria. Everyone is in an incredibly good mood when it’s 70 degrees and sunny in April. It’s like the entire population is on really good drugs. We’re just so happy that we can finally barbecue and have sex without socks again. It’s the yin to February’s yang. You can’t understand how those first warm days feel unless you’ve known a Michigan February, when everyone is depressed and driving poorly.

But don’t forget, winter can rise from the dead, like a bad action film villain, just to take another shot at your tender, thawing heart. This mini-blizzard from two days ago is a perfect example, and we’ve seen that sort of thing happen at the end of April, after many of the flowers have bloomed. And, snap! Everyone is back to being a February grump. That’s why I think it’s really important to focus on the little changes – the days that grow longer, those pregnant tree branches that are looking a little red and fuzzy around the edges, that first daffodil that you spot by the side of the road, the more frequent chirping of birds, and so on. Maybe I can trade this thick coat in for a jacket, and maybe I don’t need to wear a hat today. I get excited for these things, because even under all this Easter snow, the promise is still there.

Recessionary Blessings

I first caught a glimpse of her as I happened to glance away from my book during a lunch break. She was standing between the time clock and the coat rack. Unlike the rest of us, who were gabbing with friends, running out to the loading dock for a smoke or finding a few minutes’ respite in reading, she just stood there with a faraway look in her eyes. The deep red of her hair and her pinpoint 3d freckles clashed against ashen skin and an expression of utter sadness upon her face. I knew that face. It was the look of someone mourning the income they once made.

There were passing moments when I had also glanced across the assembly line and asked myself how I wound up here, but I knew my reasons and I suspect that my life’s trajectory was more intentional than the redheaded lady’s. I had stumbled upon this temporary gig at a mail order facility, packing gift boxes for the holiday rush, just as I was getting ready to leave my miserable job at Club Cracker. I was already making some supplemental income as a copyeditor, so I figured that this pleasantly mindless, albeit low-wage job would be exactly what I needed to comfortably scrape through the holiday season.

It wasn’t easy for me to leave the Club without a solid job in store. I’ve been at odds with the job market for the better part of the last 15 months. In September ’06, I left a good salary and a very rewarding, long term, grown up job (my first one, really) as part of my eve of age 30 “big change”. And while I honestly don’t regret that choice, I freely admit there were moments during my darkest, poorest hours of unemployment when I wondered how I had gone from $35k to nothing. I felt like I had dove into an empty pool. I had to come to terms with the fact that my arts management skills are practically meaningless in a dying post-industrial economy.

Last summer, I received an offer from the Club and snapped it up without hesitation. The money was good, but the job wasn’t. At first, I wouldn’t even let myself consider leaving. It seemed like such an irresponsible choice in this brutal job market. But then one night, I found myself sitting in the middle of my bedroom floor, sobbing as I folded laundry, because I had been sobbing too much to not multi-task. Dan told me I couldn’t go on like this. He said, “Tara, this isn’t like Detroit. You can find something here. You can wait tables!”

I never thought that the phrase “you can wait tables” would ever give me such a warm sense of comfort, but it did. I knew I would be much happier waiting tables than working this salaried, soul-sucking job, so I immediately got cracking on my getaway plan.

In the course of a few weeks, I became a copyeditor/gift-packing elf. Copyediting is certainly more mentally stimulating and better paying than the mail order job, but I found the company of my assembly line colleagues strangely comforting. Many of them were middle aged, middle-class looking people who had taken buyouts from their auto industry jobs. People talked about the shitty economy like they talk about the weather; it’s that daily Michigan annoyance that rarely gets better but is never uninteresting. Everyone seemed to be struggling (why else would we work for eight bucks an hour for a few weeks in December?), but the struggle is now so common that we were all pretty nonchalant about it.

All in all, I guess this business of being poor has become far less shameful to me. I just landed a full-time job with that same company. It won’t pay nearly as well as the Club, but it’s worth it to me to work for a company that is known for treating its employees well. I honestly feel incredibly lucky for this opportunity, among so many other things.

Like, I think a lot about the sad, redheaded lady and what may have made her situation so devastating. She looked like a mom. What would I do if I had kids and I got laid off? I feel so lucky that I don’t have to worry about that. Or, I think about how much harder it was for me to get by in Detroit. But as hard as it was there, I could never feel too sorry for myself because I could easily spot someone who had it way worse than me. I feel lucky that I got a chance to live there and learn how to be poor. I am a far more conscientious money-manager for it. I’m remarkably lucky for having a man I can lean on in troubled times. I’m so grateful for being warm on this snowy winter day, especially since I’ve come to know how hard it can be to pay your rent.

I’m not trying to belittle the misery of this economy. It will probably get worse before it gets better (despite Governor Granholm’s claims, which bear a vacuous “prosperity is just around the corner” air). So, why am I riding this inexplicable wave of glee? I truly feel fortunate and free, especially since I discovered that the best things in my life have nothing to do with working a grown up job and making $35k a year.

Premier Ponderings

A bit about me

I grew up in Dearborn, Michigan - a remarkably unpleasant place for a young lady to come of age. When I was 20, I escaped to Ann Arbor. A2 is a quaint, tree-filled, heinously expensive little town populated by adult-sized children who attend, teach at or work for the University of Michigan. I studied at the U for a few years before dropping out and then just sorta...stayed. Eventually, I found employ at a beautiful, not-for-profit historic theater and worked my way up from manager to super-important manager. That was nice for a while, but I steadily grew tired of living in a self-absorbed community that seemed to shrink upon me. Ann Arbor is similar to New York City or the State of Texas in that its residents are constantly aware of that place being their home and that “there-ness” seems to be a part of every conversation and consideration. The rest of the world eventually fades from existence or never really exists if you spend your whole life there. But unlike NYC or Texas, Ann Arbor is special because it is much smaller (and I am using "special" as a euphemism for "retarded").

All of this came into focus at the humdrum finale of yet another bullshit relationship, so I began formulating an escape plan. The destination wasn't as important as getting away from Ann Arbor. And then, quite unexpectedly, I met my man, Dan, who is easily my favorite person ever. He had just moved to Detroit to do field work for his sociology dissertation and so I followed him to the D. And here I am.

I began writing a blog on myspace when I first moved to the city because I was unemployed and bored. I didn't expect that I would love doing this. I've kept journals on a consistent basis for the past 14 years but I had forgotten how satisfying it is to write for an audience. This is my primary motivation and thus far, my collection of essays has no thread or theme. I just want to entertain you with a few cleverly worded thoughts every now and then. And hopefully, by moving from myspace to here, I can reach out to more of you.

But, enough about me. Let's talk about...

T-McC’s Tutorial on Tipping in the 21^st Century

I am a waitress. I’m fairly new at this gig, but I am good and I get better every day. I am paid $2.82 to schlep food and beverage for those who are too lazy or incompetent to do that for themselves. I am paid this low wage because it is expected that my customers will tip me. Some don’t most do but many of those who do do it poorly.

I recognize that tipping is generally a learned practice and many of us were not raised to tip or tip well, but you can change. Why bother? For one thing, you may avoid a bad reputation and unwanted server saliva in your meal (though I am not so crass, I cannot vouch for my brethren). But really, decent tipping is essential to participating in civilized society. If you do not figure tipping into your dining-out budget, then you shouldn’t eat at restaurants. You look bad, not just to me but also to your dining peers. In short, bad tippers don’t get laid as often as good tippers.

If you did not know, 15% of your total bill is the standard rate for tipping. I never tip less than 20%. This was my practice long before I waited tables. I find that when I frequent a food service establishment, I get great service because I’m known for tipping well. But percentages aren’t all you should consider when figuring a gratuity. Please consider the following:

• What if the total bill is $7 or less? Where I work, $7 can buy you a lot of food. Are you really going to leave a single dollar bill for the person who brought you your food, refilled your beverage, packed up the leftovers to go and cleaned up all the crumbs you left behind? Would another buck really set you back? If not, it would make a big difference to your server. That’s twice as much money for the same amount of time he or she spent tending to you.

• How long did you sit at your table and how busy was the restaurant? Most servers are assigned a section of tables to wait upon throughout their shift. Suppose a server has 5 tables and the average customer or group occupies their table for 45 minutes. Suppose, also, that you sit at your table for 1 ½ hours. You are decreasing that worker’s earning opportunity by 20% during an average meal time. Sit as long as you want, but just remember that other paying customers may be turned away or seated in another server’s section. Figure that into your tip.

• Do you use pennies? Neither do I. Then why the fuck did you leave those for me?? I like bigger tips but I can do without the extra 2 – 20 cents. It isn’t worth the amount of time I spend scraping copper off the table.

• Did you bring your small children with you? Yes, I know that parenting is a challenge, which is probably why you are such a dick/cunt to your server. But waiting on your tot is no treat either, particularly when drinks – or worse, bodily fluids – spill. If you expect your server to assist you in rearing your children during your family dining experience, then your server ought to be paid a lot more like a nanny.

• What time is it? Most civilized people do not begin dining during the last 15 minutes a restaurant is open. While it’s true that we restaurant workers have plenty of prep work to occupy us at the end of our shift, most of us are able to knock off those chores in the last half hour of business . The longer you sit there, the longer we have to stay. This is a perfect example of when 15% is too little.

• Are you a pain in the ass? Do you order the special and then make alterations? Do you want extra crap and then some other bullshit on the side? Restaurants are able to produce large amounts of food quickly in part because the menu items are uniform. Most of the food you order has been prepped many hours in advance. The mashed potatoes are not made to your order, so there will not be any “extra creamy” or “slightly lumpy”. And if we can accommodate your myriad changes and particular requests, it is at the expense of efficiency. If you cannot be reasonable, then you ought to pay more for being persnickety.

Of course, bad service shouldn’t be rewarded. If I spill a beverage on a customer or forget to bring some of their food or serve them a dish that contains their explicitly stated allergen, I’m not disappointed when there is no tip on the table. But truly, those people are not the problem. The bad tippers and the non-tippers are usually the people I give great service. And don’t believe that they all belong to a particular race, ethnicity or age group. The culprits come in all shapes and sizes. Aside from being demanding, inconsiderate and unpleasant, their only common bond is that they are not getting laid.