Cat Sigh

It was another dreamy spring morning when I stepped out of my reverie and onto the no. 3 bus out of Ypsilanti. I had come to count on the 3 being the least sketchy ride to Ann Arbor, but I had a weird feeling when I greeted the driver. As I turned the corner and headed toward an empty rows of seats, I noticed a couple of teenage girls sprawled out on one of the sideways benches at the front. They pointed at me and laughed as I passed them and I immediately became flustered and self-conscious. Was there something on my face? Was my belly sticking out from my sweater? When I sat down, I quickly buried my face in a novel and pretended to not notice them noticing me. Of course, I was hyper-aware of their ridicule, which they heaped on every new passenger who boarded after me. When another woman walked by, they snorted and chortled and one of them muttered, "We should have tripped her!" For a moment, I was calmer. There wasn't anything wrong with me. These were just a couple of catty bitches... on a mission.

I knew the situation would escalate and since I was the nearest passenger, I would inevitably become a target. The bigger of the two girls - clearly the alpha bitch - turned to me and said, "Excuse me, don't you ever get out in the sun?"

"Well, that's a very rude question." I squinted my eyes as I peered into her smooth, womanly face. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen".

I gave her a dubious look and returned to my book. She tried to talk to me again, but I ignored her. I hoped that I wouldn't have to ignore them for long. Fortunately, their next victim arrived a minute later. A young man stepped on the bus and as he passed the jailbait duo, one of the girls tripped him and laughed. He told them they had no respect and headed to the back of the bus. They were on him in two seconds. Alpha bitch screamed, "You can't talk that way to us, faggot! Faggot!" She had really perfected the rage behind that slur, really enunciated the hell out of it. What a gutteral term- so fittingly mouthed by such a trashy young woman.

I won't lie. I took part in similar dumb pranks when I was a teenage girl. I remember when Megan Rossi and I were thirteen, we went to Fairlane mall and spent a whole afternoon riding the elevator at Hudson's, getting into fake fights in front of complete strangers. We thought it was really hilarious to make other people feel uncomfortable. It's the one power we ladies have had in all these centuries of male supremacy. We may not get paid what we deserve and we may be considered nothing more than baby-birthing chattle, but all of us are well versed in methods of emotional torture. All of us, at one time or another, flex that muscle, so I understand the thrill that comes with these sort of adolescent capers.

I'd like to think I outgrew that impulse. I don't think Megan ever did, but by age sixteen she was far more adept at her craft than the girls on the no. 3 bus. I mean, at sixteen, shouldn't they be sleeping with each other's boyfriends or something? Shit, Megan was slashing guys' tires by then. These pointing, laughing and tripping antics are diaper tactics compared to what most girls their age would do for some mean-spirited fun.

But the bus bitches were at least as persistent as they were immature. They ragged on that guy for a good five minutes. I don't know where the driver's mind was during all this activity. Eventually, a couple moved from the back of the bus to the front and apha bitch squealed, "Ooh, they're gonna' tell the driver!" but they didn't. She and her pal must have been disappointed, because they got off at the next stop.

And then, at that very stop, two incredibly aggressive, loud, mentally retarded men boarded. They sat exactly where those girls had been sitting and just like their predecessors, they said rude things to people who walked past them. And just like everyone (except "faggot" man) who had to deal with those mean girls, we ignored them, because that's what you do with retarded people who say mean things. Conventional knowledge tells us that it isn't their fault that they're assholes. They can't help it.

I remember in eighth grade catechism, Mr. St. John told our class that "retards are the only people who are guaranteed to get into heaven, because they don't know the difference between right and wrong." This was the definitive moment when I realized that Catholicism (religion in general, really) is a crock of shit. But, let's say we follow that logic for a moment. Are ghetto teenage girls any more accountable for their sins? Can these girls help being as awful as they are? Who could love them? Probably no one does. And I even considered mentioning that to them, along with some unsolicited advice about going to school, as that would probably be their one and only shot at a future.

It seems that I haven't completely outgrown the impulse, after all.

Minutia

If Hillary Clinton wins the Democratic Party’s nomination, I will be leading a write-in campaign for No Thanks. That way, I can still flaunt an “I Voted” sticker on Election Day.

Remember when Wheel of Fortune contestants had to spend their winnings on household goods that lay upon a spinning showcase, and there was always a life-size ceramic dog up for grabs? Usually, it was a Dalmatian. Do you know anyone who has ever owned a life-size ceramic Dalmatian? If so, is it not incredibly likely that that person was a Wheel of Fortune contestant circa 1984?

One of my few deep peeves is when “myriad” is used as a noun, because it is actually an adjective.

A character actor is a performer who is known either for consistently portraying the same type of character (e.g. Danny Aiello as That Mob Guy) or for playing myriad (not “a myriad of”) character types. The definition of a character actor is a paradox.

Go, ahead. Eat the brie rind.

Judith Regan used to run a Harper Collins subsidiary for Rupert Murdoch. She is well known for being a reprobate and has found incredible success in publishing many trashy books, like Jenna Jameson’s How to Make Love Like a Porn Star and Jose Canseco’s Juiced. She used to fuck the NYC chief of police, who was supposed to be the secretary of homeland security. But, it turned out that he was married and fucking a third woman AND conducting his affairs in an apartment complex that was reserved for 911 victims and their families, so that didn’t work out for him (nor did this scandal help his old boss Rudy Guiliani’s presidential bid). Judith Regan’s influence ripples through our culture.

What is your most loathsome cliché? Mine is “playing the race card”. I believe that we American citizens should make a compact to eliminate this phrase from all public dialogue, if only because it was borne of the OJ trial.

If Hillary Clinton becomes President, our last four leaders will be named, in order, Bush, Clinton, Bush, Clinton. Does this sound like a democracy?

Judith Regan was supposed to publish and promote OJ Simpson’s book If I Did It, including a televised interview with the man himself, in which he explains how he would have killed his wife if he had actually done it. In a rare moment of grace, the average American decided that was just a little too fucked up, and the deal fell apart.

Chutney is a relish made of fruit and spices. The fruit offers texture, but surprisingly little sweetness. Ketchup is a chutney.

Remember when Pat Sajak had a late night talk show, and a semblance of humanity?

Jose Canseco admitted to using steroids in Juiced and named a lot of other players, too. In his upcoming book, Vindicated, he is said to name Detroit Tigers right fielder Magglio Ordoñez, who rose to new heights last season when he held the highest batting average in the American League. This rumor came to light after Ordoñez and Tigers Gerneral Manager Dave Dombrowski informed the baseball commissioner’s office that Canseco had contacted Ordoñez, offering to keep his name “clear” if Magglio would consider investing in a film project. “I don’t want trouble… He must be desperate for money,” was mild-mannered Magg’s response. Vindicated will not be published by Judith Regan, who got fired last year for spewing obnoxious claims about Jewish people to a Jewish Harper Collins lawyer.

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.