The Pit of Doom is back, and it’s bigger than ever before.
No, the Pit of Doom is not the Sarlacc Pit that swallowed ultracool bounty hunter Boba Fett in “Return of the Jedi,” and it’s not some megahard olive pit that may have destroyed your back molar.’
It’s the name I gave to my wife’s purse years ago, and one that caught on with other husbands I know, including my late father-in-law who used to joke around with me that his wife’s Pit of Doom was bigger and deadlier than my wife’s.
Both of us knew that once an item went into the Pit of Doom, there was only a 50-50 chance it was ever coming out again.
But something strange happened over the years. The Pit of Doom shrunk. With every incarnation, it got smaller, to the point I rarely referred to it as the Pit of Doom. I figured smaller purses must have been the trend, and I wasn’t going to argue with that.
But out of nowhere the Pit of Doom returned. My wife said to me, as she often has, “I got a new purse.” Figuring I’d have to do the obligatory “It looks very nice,” my mouth nearly dropped when she showed me something not much smaller than a larger carry-on luggage bag.
“Whose body do you plan on hiding in there?” I asked, thinking maybe mine for even asking the question.
“Nobody’s,” she laughed. “I just liked it.” She probably said something about it being on sale, but I missed that because I was still awed at the sheer size of it, like people probably felt upon encountering the Titanic prior to its fateful maiden voyage.
I dropped the subject, figuring that maybe such a big purse would actually eliminate previous Pit of Doom issues, purely on the fact she could just stick her head in there when she needed to find something, making the task much easier.
That wasn’t to be, though, as I often started hearing the once familiar phrase of “I can’t find it in my purse.” Like the Bermuda Triangle, things have gone missing again, with little hope of ever being found again.
The Pit of Doom has its benefits when things aren’t getting lost in it, though. Needing a scissors one day, my wife pulled one out of her purse. I’m guessing not many other people can have scissors ready like that at their disposal.
With concealed carry, a gun is likely to get lost in the Pit of Doom, but the purse itself could serve as an effective weapon, so I don’t ever have to worry about her safety. Should she ever need it, she would just have to swing the purse and hit her target. The only problem would be having enough momentum to actually swing the purse.
I can joke all I want, but I wouldn’t dare print this without giving my wife her say. Her comment:
“I will accept and acknowledge that my purse has, on multiple occasions, become the final resting place of many an item which is never to be seen again. I attribute this to the same creature that eats at least one half of a pair of socks with every load of laundry that comes out of the dryer.
“As for the size, I, like many other mothers, find it necessary to carry something more fashionable, yet not dissimilar to a diaper bag for amusing and contending with children (and often husbands) on public outings. Frequently, you will find a wide variety of crayons, matchbox cars or Star Wars figurines within its clutches.
“Note to readers… the husband frequently cites Star Wars references… any guesses who the figurines are for in this case? It is not uncommon to find a juice box, packs of gum or a variety of other treats as well. We women need to do what we need to do to manage our families. If that includes keeping an arsenal in a large accessory, so be it.”
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Nov. 18, 2011.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Completing picture puzzle can take plenty of time
My family and I have been living in our new house for five months now, and this past weekend we finally hung the majority of our pictures. I’m not sure if anyone ever said this, and if they didn’t I’m saying it now, but pictures really do make a home a home.
Our walls haven’t been completely blank. We had a few pictures on the wall to at least liven each room up a little bit, but many walls were empty. It appeared as though we didn’t have any family, and like the Unabomber – without any real family connections except the brother who eventually turned him in – lived there.
We’re not the Unabomber family, though. We just took a long time in getting our rooms in order to know where we wanted to go with all our pictures. Actually, it was just one room – the master bedroom – but they all needed to be in order before the picture puzzle (sounds like a Bill Cosby preschool program) could be completed.
The bedroom was finished with the arrival last week of a new dresser and media center, allowing us to complete our puzzle.
When we lived in Wautoma, our house had a country home vibe, so our taste in pictures and artwork reflected this. The frames were the type you could buy at most gift shops, and they did not have any type of theme to them.
Our tastes started to change when we moved to an apartment in Plover. The country home vibe no longer worked for us, and we wanted a theme. The theme we settled on: black frames. Widely available and easy to match with each other, these frames quickly became standard in our apartment.
In our new home in Stevens Point, the black frames would work well in setting an overall “black” theme. Black curtains, black appliances, black dishware, black Sony Playstation. Well, we didn’t have choice with that last one, but at least it matches. Although the frames with the pictures were the last thing to go up, they set a precedent for everything else we did.
At our Wautoma home and Plover apartment, family photos dominated the living room. Now they’ve been relegated to every room except the living room, which now has six large scenery photos taken either by my wife or me. Actually, she took all except one of them, which kind of makes her a semi-professional photographer, I think, because our living room has become a photo gallery for her work. That should count for something.
We’ve been careful not to clutter our walls with pictures. We’re fans of the “less is more” approach, but we realize that doesn’t work for everyone, with everyone namely being my mother and most old people we know.
My mother’s walls have little white space (or whatever the color of the wall might be). If there’s room to fit a picture, she’ll make it happen. Maybe it’s from years of accumulating photos, or maybe it’s just an old person thing, but she definitely doesn’t waste the space.
To this day, I’m still discovering pictures on her walls I’ve never noticed before. If you are in my family at any point in you’re life, your probably on my mom’s walls, which have now become a weird sort of visual family tree, even with the branches that sometime twist together in unexplainable ways.
Together with the army of snowmen she brings out every winter, my mom’s house is definitely a delight for the eyes. I wouldn’t want it any other way, though. It’s what makes her home unique.
Just like our taste has made our home unique. Others might not like it, but we wouldn’t want it any other way.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Nov. 11, 2011.
Our walls haven’t been completely blank. We had a few pictures on the wall to at least liven each room up a little bit, but many walls were empty. It appeared as though we didn’t have any family, and like the Unabomber – without any real family connections except the brother who eventually turned him in – lived there.
We’re not the Unabomber family, though. We just took a long time in getting our rooms in order to know where we wanted to go with all our pictures. Actually, it was just one room – the master bedroom – but they all needed to be in order before the picture puzzle (sounds like a Bill Cosby preschool program) could be completed.
The bedroom was finished with the arrival last week of a new dresser and media center, allowing us to complete our puzzle.
When we lived in Wautoma, our house had a country home vibe, so our taste in pictures and artwork reflected this. The frames were the type you could buy at most gift shops, and they did not have any type of theme to them.
Our tastes started to change when we moved to an apartment in Plover. The country home vibe no longer worked for us, and we wanted a theme. The theme we settled on: black frames. Widely available and easy to match with each other, these frames quickly became standard in our apartment.
In our new home in Stevens Point, the black frames would work well in setting an overall “black” theme. Black curtains, black appliances, black dishware, black Sony Playstation. Well, we didn’t have choice with that last one, but at least it matches. Although the frames with the pictures were the last thing to go up, they set a precedent for everything else we did.
At our Wautoma home and Plover apartment, family photos dominated the living room. Now they’ve been relegated to every room except the living room, which now has six large scenery photos taken either by my wife or me. Actually, she took all except one of them, which kind of makes her a semi-professional photographer, I think, because our living room has become a photo gallery for her work. That should count for something.
We’ve been careful not to clutter our walls with pictures. We’re fans of the “less is more” approach, but we realize that doesn’t work for everyone, with everyone namely being my mother and most old people we know.
My mother’s walls have little white space (or whatever the color of the wall might be). If there’s room to fit a picture, she’ll make it happen. Maybe it’s from years of accumulating photos, or maybe it’s just an old person thing, but she definitely doesn’t waste the space.
To this day, I’m still discovering pictures on her walls I’ve never noticed before. If you are in my family at any point in you’re life, your probably on my mom’s walls, which have now become a weird sort of visual family tree, even with the branches that sometime twist together in unexplainable ways.
Together with the army of snowmen she brings out every winter, my mom’s house is definitely a delight for the eyes. I wouldn’t want it any other way, though. It’s what makes her home unique.
Just like our taste has made our home unique. Others might not like it, but we wouldn’t want it any other way.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Nov. 11, 2011.
Uncapping inner filter could be fun to try
I nearly fell off the couch laughing so hard because of something one of my favorite television characters said on the show “Parks and Recreation.”
Ron Swanson (Nick Offerman), the director of the Parks and Recreation Department for the fictional Indiana city of Pawnee on the NBC show, is a man’s man. He believes people should hunt for their own food, build their own houses and fix their own problems.
During the most recent episode, a salesman at a home improvement center nicely asked Swanson if he needed any help finding anything for the project he was shopping for or any information that could help him with it.
Baffled anyone would ask him such a foolish question, Swanson gave the salesman a nasty look and said, “I know more than you,” and then walked away.
Swanson is a character who can pretty much say what he wants to anyone, and then not worry about whether or not he offended that person. It makes for great comedy because there are times many of us wish we could say what we want, but because of that stupid inner filter, most of us never do.
I’d give real-life examples, but my inner filter prevents me from doing so, even away from the situation and potentially even away from the people who may have made me wish I didn’t have an inner filter.
But nothing can stop me from giving some more Ron Swanson examples:
When a co-worker was desperately trying to please him, he said she was getting too chummy. “Anne was getting a little chummy. When people get a little too chummy with me, I like to call them by the wrong name to let them know I don’t really care about them,” he said. I can think of a few people I should try this tactic on.
After beating out a co-worker for an award, Swanson offered his condolences. “Be proud of yourself. You deserve an award. Not this one, obviously. This one belongs to me. But some other one. Some other lesser award.” In some ways, coming from him this is a compliment.
At a meeting: “My name is Ron. You don’t need to know my last name. Whoever wants to talk, go ahead and we’ll be out of here in a tight 15.” As much babble as I hear at government meetings, having a Ron Swanson in charge would be a great thing.
To his ex-wife: “You’ve aged horribly.” There is probably little she could have said to make him feel worse than she felt after hearing that one.
Here’s a compliment to one person, but probably not to everyone else: “I like Andy. I’m surrounded by a lot of women in this department. And that includes the men.”
Here’s another backhanded compliment: “I need to find someone to fill in for April. Now I know I’m not going to find someone who’s both aggressively mean and apathetic. April really is the whole package.”
And this one pretty much sums up Swanson’s philosophy on life: “The less I know about other people’s affairs, the happier I am. I’m not interested in caring about people. I once worked with a guy for three years and never learned his name. Best friend I ever had. We still never talk sometimes.”
While being friends with an unfiltered person like Swanson is something I’d never want – because I’m sure that person would offend me – watching him or her from a distance, with a little admiration, would be fun. I need such a non-friend.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Nov. 4, 2011.
Ron Swanson (Nick Offerman), the director of the Parks and Recreation Department for the fictional Indiana city of Pawnee on the NBC show, is a man’s man. He believes people should hunt for their own food, build their own houses and fix their own problems.
During the most recent episode, a salesman at a home improvement center nicely asked Swanson if he needed any help finding anything for the project he was shopping for or any information that could help him with it.
Baffled anyone would ask him such a foolish question, Swanson gave the salesman a nasty look and said, “I know more than you,” and then walked away.
Swanson is a character who can pretty much say what he wants to anyone, and then not worry about whether or not he offended that person. It makes for great comedy because there are times many of us wish we could say what we want, but because of that stupid inner filter, most of us never do.
I’d give real-life examples, but my inner filter prevents me from doing so, even away from the situation and potentially even away from the people who may have made me wish I didn’t have an inner filter.
But nothing can stop me from giving some more Ron Swanson examples:
When a co-worker was desperately trying to please him, he said she was getting too chummy. “Anne was getting a little chummy. When people get a little too chummy with me, I like to call them by the wrong name to let them know I don’t really care about them,” he said. I can think of a few people I should try this tactic on.
After beating out a co-worker for an award, Swanson offered his condolences. “Be proud of yourself. You deserve an award. Not this one, obviously. This one belongs to me. But some other one. Some other lesser award.” In some ways, coming from him this is a compliment.
At a meeting: “My name is Ron. You don’t need to know my last name. Whoever wants to talk, go ahead and we’ll be out of here in a tight 15.” As much babble as I hear at government meetings, having a Ron Swanson in charge would be a great thing.
To his ex-wife: “You’ve aged horribly.” There is probably little she could have said to make him feel worse than she felt after hearing that one.
Here’s a compliment to one person, but probably not to everyone else: “I like Andy. I’m surrounded by a lot of women in this department. And that includes the men.”
Here’s another backhanded compliment: “I need to find someone to fill in for April. Now I know I’m not going to find someone who’s both aggressively mean and apathetic. April really is the whole package.”
And this one pretty much sums up Swanson’s philosophy on life: “The less I know about other people’s affairs, the happier I am. I’m not interested in caring about people. I once worked with a guy for three years and never learned his name. Best friend I ever had. We still never talk sometimes.”
While being friends with an unfiltered person like Swanson is something I’d never want – because I’m sure that person would offend me – watching him or her from a distance, with a little admiration, would be fun. I need such a non-friend.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Nov. 4, 2011.
Drive-By Truckers show why all concerts should be held at small clubs
I don’t think I’m ever going to go to an arena or stadium again to see a band.
I’ve come to this conclusion after seeing a favorite band of mine, Drive-By Truckers, at a club in Madison on Sunday. Comparing this experience with the arena experiences I’ve had made me realize the more intimate setting is the only good way to see a band.
Drive-By Truckers, an Athens, Ga.-based three-guitar rock band, have been together for more than 20 years, although they’ve never gone mainstream because they’ve never had a big hit or a million-selling album. After a long string of solid albums, I’ve placed them in my top five bands of all-time, a list that also includes Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, U2, Pearl Jam and The Replacements.
I discovered the Truckers about 10 years ago when magazine reviews compared them to some of these bands, prompting me to purchase an album. I really liked the album, and as I often do with bands I like, I purchased their entire discography.
Now I’m to the point where I’m at Radio KAOS on the day they are released so I can listen to them as soon as possible. When I walk in, Randy, Radio KAOS’ owner, knows exactly what I’m looking for. “New Truckers album today,” he’ll say as a statement as to why I’m there. Such knowledge about the customer is the No. 1 reason people should shop locally whenever possible.
The band’s latest album, “Go-Go Boots,” is their second strongest album, right behind their masterpiece, “Southern Rock Opera,” a two-disc concept album that uses the plane crash that killed members of the group Lynryd Skynyrd as one of its central focus points.
While the Truckers might not be a household name, they’ve got some big fans, including David Letterman who has said the band is one of his favorites. When they played on his show this past summer, he made them do an encore performance of “Everybody Needs Love,” a song that now serves as my phone ringtone.
When they announced the current leg of their tour, which included stops in Milwaukee and Madison, I bought tickets for the Madison show at The Majestic immediately. I assumed it was a larger venue, so I was surprised when we arrived and it was just a small club with a capacity of 500 people.
All the bands I’ve seen in the past have either been at the Bradley Center or Marcus Amphitheater in Milwaukee, or at festivals throughout the state, where thousands of other people were also there. Even the bands playing at Riverfront Rendezvous in Stevens Point have thousands of spectators.
I’ve had some good experiences – namely Bruce Springsteen at the Bradley Center in 1999 where I had seats in the upper level right next to the stage. But often I’m so far away I have to watch the teleprompters, which is like watching a bad television viewing of the concert. Also, the sound is often terrible or too loud, which defeats the entire purpose of watching a live show.
But at The Majestic, the setting was intimate enough that I could get right up near the stage if I wanted to and the sound was great because the acoustics of the facility.
It helped the band put on a high-energy rock show in which members engaged the audience as though every person there mattered. My wife, who wasn’t familiar with the band at all, even found herself getting into their groove, coming away a fan.
That’s good rock and roll – when nonfans can become converted. I’ll give the club a lot of credit in helping with that, though.
Maybe I’ll have to see my least favorite band of all-time, Nickelback, in a club. And then I could understand why millions of people like them. Then again, maybe I’d rather see someone I like just a little bit in an arena. That’s probably the better choice.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Oct. 28, 2011.
I’ve come to this conclusion after seeing a favorite band of mine, Drive-By Truckers, at a club in Madison on Sunday. Comparing this experience with the arena experiences I’ve had made me realize the more intimate setting is the only good way to see a band.
Drive-By Truckers, an Athens, Ga.-based three-guitar rock band, have been together for more than 20 years, although they’ve never gone mainstream because they’ve never had a big hit or a million-selling album. After a long string of solid albums, I’ve placed them in my top five bands of all-time, a list that also includes Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, U2, Pearl Jam and The Replacements.
I discovered the Truckers about 10 years ago when magazine reviews compared them to some of these bands, prompting me to purchase an album. I really liked the album, and as I often do with bands I like, I purchased their entire discography.
Now I’m to the point where I’m at Radio KAOS on the day they are released so I can listen to them as soon as possible. When I walk in, Randy, Radio KAOS’ owner, knows exactly what I’m looking for. “New Truckers album today,” he’ll say as a statement as to why I’m there. Such knowledge about the customer is the No. 1 reason people should shop locally whenever possible.
The band’s latest album, “Go-Go Boots,” is their second strongest album, right behind their masterpiece, “Southern Rock Opera,” a two-disc concept album that uses the plane crash that killed members of the group Lynryd Skynyrd as one of its central focus points.
While the Truckers might not be a household name, they’ve got some big fans, including David Letterman who has said the band is one of his favorites. When they played on his show this past summer, he made them do an encore performance of “Everybody Needs Love,” a song that now serves as my phone ringtone.
When they announced the current leg of their tour, which included stops in Milwaukee and Madison, I bought tickets for the Madison show at The Majestic immediately. I assumed it was a larger venue, so I was surprised when we arrived and it was just a small club with a capacity of 500 people.
All the bands I’ve seen in the past have either been at the Bradley Center or Marcus Amphitheater in Milwaukee, or at festivals throughout the state, where thousands of other people were also there. Even the bands playing at Riverfront Rendezvous in Stevens Point have thousands of spectators.
I’ve had some good experiences – namely Bruce Springsteen at the Bradley Center in 1999 where I had seats in the upper level right next to the stage. But often I’m so far away I have to watch the teleprompters, which is like watching a bad television viewing of the concert. Also, the sound is often terrible or too loud, which defeats the entire purpose of watching a live show.
But at The Majestic, the setting was intimate enough that I could get right up near the stage if I wanted to and the sound was great because the acoustics of the facility.
It helped the band put on a high-energy rock show in which members engaged the audience as though every person there mattered. My wife, who wasn’t familiar with the band at all, even found herself getting into their groove, coming away a fan.
That’s good rock and roll – when nonfans can become converted. I’ll give the club a lot of credit in helping with that, though.
Maybe I’ll have to see my least favorite band of all-time, Nickelback, in a club. And then I could understand why millions of people like them. Then again, maybe I’d rather see someone I like just a little bit in an arena. That’s probably the better choice.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Oct. 28, 2011.
Godparenthood could be good for putting together basketball team
I’m collecting godchildren like a paleontologist collects bones.
I added a third one to my collection on Sunday, my wife’s sister’s son whom I call Silvio. His name is actually Steven, but everybody calls him Little Stevie, since his father’s name is also Steven. Taking it several steps further, I started calling him Little Steven, which is Steven Van Zandt’s nickname as a member of Bruce Springsteen’s E Street Band, but changed my nickname to Silvio, the name of the character Little Steven played on HBO’s “The Sopranos.” It’s a complicated nickname, but complicated ones should come from a godfather.
I became a godfather for the first time in the late 1990s to a newborn cousin, Alex. It was an exciting moment for me, as I was still a fairly young, single man who knew children were not anywhere in my near future. For all I knew, I thought I might never get married and might never have any kids. It was nice knowing if that were to occur, someone was available to inherit whatever little I made in my chosen career.
Perpetual bachelorhood didn’t happen, though, as I got married in 2003 and had a son in 2005. Instead of accepting a request to become a godparent, I could now select godparents for my son. We chose my wife’s sister and my stepfather, two people we believed could deliver as our son’s religious guides should we be unable to do so. My stepfather was a no-brainer, as he is a religious leader and a catechism teacher at his church. In addition, since he married my mother long after I left the house, we felt this would allow him to have a closer bond with his grandson he might not have felt he could have.
Within a year of having a son, I garnered my second godson, Taylor, the son of my sister and her husband. With two godsons and one son, I felt pretty good. While I’ve never had the privilege of standing up as a best man or groomsmen in a wedding, becoming a father-figure seemed much more special. It’s an honor reserved for the best of the best, and one bestowed upon me twice.
So when my wife’s sister asked us to become the godparents to Silvio, I was ecstatic. Three godchildren and a son; I’m just one godson/son short of putting together a basketball team, which could be a great team if all of the boys inherit their parents’ height.
I know being a godparent comes with specific responsibilities, mainly to be the person my godchildren can talk to when they are older. My godmother, my aunt Connie, is someone I’ve always felt comfortable talking to and seeking advice from, and I hope to be that person for my godchildren. I want to be the parental figure that comes without some of the negative connotations that automatically apply to real parents.
I can’t imagine collecting any more godchildren, but nothing in this world is predictable. Maybe I’ll get that basketball team, or maybe I’ll end up with a football team. In any case, I’ll cherish the ones I have and gladly welcome any more that might come.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Oct. 21, 2011.
I added a third one to my collection on Sunday, my wife’s sister’s son whom I call Silvio. His name is actually Steven, but everybody calls him Little Stevie, since his father’s name is also Steven. Taking it several steps further, I started calling him Little Steven, which is Steven Van Zandt’s nickname as a member of Bruce Springsteen’s E Street Band, but changed my nickname to Silvio, the name of the character Little Steven played on HBO’s “The Sopranos.” It’s a complicated nickname, but complicated ones should come from a godfather.
I became a godfather for the first time in the late 1990s to a newborn cousin, Alex. It was an exciting moment for me, as I was still a fairly young, single man who knew children were not anywhere in my near future. For all I knew, I thought I might never get married and might never have any kids. It was nice knowing if that were to occur, someone was available to inherit whatever little I made in my chosen career.
Perpetual bachelorhood didn’t happen, though, as I got married in 2003 and had a son in 2005. Instead of accepting a request to become a godparent, I could now select godparents for my son. We chose my wife’s sister and my stepfather, two people we believed could deliver as our son’s religious guides should we be unable to do so. My stepfather was a no-brainer, as he is a religious leader and a catechism teacher at his church. In addition, since he married my mother long after I left the house, we felt this would allow him to have a closer bond with his grandson he might not have felt he could have.
Within a year of having a son, I garnered my second godson, Taylor, the son of my sister and her husband. With two godsons and one son, I felt pretty good. While I’ve never had the privilege of standing up as a best man or groomsmen in a wedding, becoming a father-figure seemed much more special. It’s an honor reserved for the best of the best, and one bestowed upon me twice.
So when my wife’s sister asked us to become the godparents to Silvio, I was ecstatic. Three godchildren and a son; I’m just one godson/son short of putting together a basketball team, which could be a great team if all of the boys inherit their parents’ height.
I know being a godparent comes with specific responsibilities, mainly to be the person my godchildren can talk to when they are older. My godmother, my aunt Connie, is someone I’ve always felt comfortable talking to and seeking advice from, and I hope to be that person for my godchildren. I want to be the parental figure that comes without some of the negative connotations that automatically apply to real parents.
I can’t imagine collecting any more godchildren, but nothing in this world is predictable. Maybe I’ll get that basketball team, or maybe I’ll end up with a football team. In any case, I’ll cherish the ones I have and gladly welcome any more that might come.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Oct. 21, 2011.
Service becomes officially slow at 20 minutes or more
What’s an appropriate time to wait at a restaurant for service before leaving? My wife and I determined it’s 20 minutes. We came to this conclusion after waiting that long at a favorite restaurant of ours recently.
We were seated immediately upon our arrival at the restaurant, noticing it wasn’t as busy as usual because it was a weekday. Upon getting seated, we talked a little about what we wanted to order, but both of us are set in our ways enough there that we didn’t even need to open our menus.
Our server came to our table about 10 minutes later, filling our glasses of water. He asked if we wanted anything else to drink, leaving immediately after taking our drink orders without telling us about the specials. We never talked to him again.
We watched as he went to his other tables multiple times, delivering food and bills, or simply to talk with the patrons. We watched as he talked with the chefs, giving them specific instructions about how the food should be prepared. We watched as he chatted with other servers.
What we didn’t see was him deliver our drink orders, return to our table to take our order or even acknowledge us in any way. It was as though he forgot he was our server.
We tried to catch his eye, hoping it would spark an “oh yeah, that’s my table” moment. We didn’t have any luck.
Our 6-year-old son almost helped our cause with his whining. “What’s taking so long?” he asked loudly. Others heard him, but not our server. Normally, we’d tell him to be patient, and it’s rude to ask such a question, but in this case we were thinking the same thing.
After 15 minutes, my wife got her phone out. “If he doesn’t come to our table within five minutes, we’re out of here,” she said. I agreed.
By this point, we were done with trying to catch his eye. It had gotten to the point of amusement for us. How much longer could he possibly avoid our table?
The five minutes went by quickly as we watched him. He made contact with one table three times during that span, even joking with the patrons. We were glad at least one table was getting good service.
At the end of the five minutes, we got up. My wife quietly told another server why we were leaving. The server offered a small apology and said the server was fairly new, but she did not try to convince us to stay.
A frozen pizza awaited us at home. It wasn’t what we really wanted, but at least we controlled the time in which we could receive our food.
Fortunately for the restaurant’s sake, we know that’s not the normal type of service we receive. I was back the next night, picking up food to go. The perfect service.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Oct. 14, 2011.
We were seated immediately upon our arrival at the restaurant, noticing it wasn’t as busy as usual because it was a weekday. Upon getting seated, we talked a little about what we wanted to order, but both of us are set in our ways enough there that we didn’t even need to open our menus.
Our server came to our table about 10 minutes later, filling our glasses of water. He asked if we wanted anything else to drink, leaving immediately after taking our drink orders without telling us about the specials. We never talked to him again.
We watched as he went to his other tables multiple times, delivering food and bills, or simply to talk with the patrons. We watched as he talked with the chefs, giving them specific instructions about how the food should be prepared. We watched as he chatted with other servers.
What we didn’t see was him deliver our drink orders, return to our table to take our order or even acknowledge us in any way. It was as though he forgot he was our server.
We tried to catch his eye, hoping it would spark an “oh yeah, that’s my table” moment. We didn’t have any luck.
Our 6-year-old son almost helped our cause with his whining. “What’s taking so long?” he asked loudly. Others heard him, but not our server. Normally, we’d tell him to be patient, and it’s rude to ask such a question, but in this case we were thinking the same thing.
After 15 minutes, my wife got her phone out. “If he doesn’t come to our table within five minutes, we’re out of here,” she said. I agreed.
By this point, we were done with trying to catch his eye. It had gotten to the point of amusement for us. How much longer could he possibly avoid our table?
The five minutes went by quickly as we watched him. He made contact with one table three times during that span, even joking with the patrons. We were glad at least one table was getting good service.
At the end of the five minutes, we got up. My wife quietly told another server why we were leaving. The server offered a small apology and said the server was fairly new, but she did not try to convince us to stay.
A frozen pizza awaited us at home. It wasn’t what we really wanted, but at least we controlled the time in which we could receive our food.
Fortunately for the restaurant’s sake, we know that’s not the normal type of service we receive. I was back the next night, picking up food to go. The perfect service.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Oct. 14, 2011.
Vehicle shopping is process that’s difficult to like or not like
I still can’t decide if I like shopping for a new vehicle, and I don’t know if I ever will.
In my lifetime, I’ve purchased eight vehicles, starting with a 1979 Pontiac Sunbird I purchased as my first car 20 years ago, through the 2008 Ford Escape I purchased last week.
The Sunbird was a clunker. I bought it from my boss who somehow convinced me it would be the perfect starter vehicle. Maybe it could have been, if it had actually started on most of the days I owned it. It sat in our driveway an entire winter, unable to start.
When it finally did start in the spring, my dad told me to take it to the gas station and put some new gas in it. That was almost its final voyage, as a drunk driver coming into the city of Berlin at speeds nearing 100 miles an hour somehow weaved around my 25 m.p.h. moving turtle right into the rear end of a vehicle ahead of me. Fortunately, none of the people in either vehicle were seriously injured, although I was on the witness list for possible litigation but was never called to testify.
I retired the Sunbird a few months later, purchasing a Chevrolet Z24 right before going off to college. That sports vehicle was a mistake, as the insurance cost more than my car payments. I sold it a year later and got a much more practical four-door Chevrolet car. It was so boring I can’t remember its year or model, but it was reliable enough that it got me through my remaining years of college.
I traded it in for a 1994 Mercury Sable in 1997. I’m not sure what possessed me to purchase it, because I never really liked it. It was what my friends called an “old person’s car.” It was a bigger vehicle more suited for a family of four than a bachelor with a limited gas budget, even at a time when gas was inexpensive.
During this time, I met my future wife, Jennifer, who was driving a beater she had gotten years ago from her grandparents. I’m pretty sure neither of us was attracted to the other for our vehicles.
Shortly before we got married, she traded in her beater for a 2000 Plymouth Neon. We traded in the Mercury for a 2003 Buick Rendezvous a few years later, and apparently just in time, too. When we returned from the dealer after bringing in the Mercury, we noticed a big chunk of the car in our driveway. I’m not even sure what the part was, but I’m happy it wasn’t needed to make the journey to the dealership.
The Rendezvous was a good vehicle, but it died of the fate that should have happened to the Sunbird: a drunk driver rear-ended it when Jennifer was attempting to pick me up from work. Fortunately the drunk driver wasn’t speeding, but the damage was enough to total the car.
Losing the Rendezvous meant we had to replace it. We bought an older vehicle, a 1999 Honda CRV, but it only had 60,000 miles on it and it was like new.
For the last four years we’ve been racking up miles on the Neon and Honda. The Neon was up to 194,000 miles and the Honda has 174,000 miles. Knowing it’s not wise to have two 200,000-mile vehicles, we started shopping for a new vehicle about a month ago.
For the first time ever, we went to multiple dealers. In the past, we usually bought the first vehicle we liked in our price range at the first dealer we stopped at. This strategy has usually worked out, but there have been times we’ve questioned if we could have gotten a better vehicle.
We may have gone to more dealers this time because of something new we’ve noticed at some of the dealers: the car salesman gets in the car with you for a test drive, after you fill out a mini-application to go on a test drive. I understand why they do it – I wouldn’t want anybody running off with a vehicle either – but it intrudes on some of the time couples spend talking with each other about the vehicle, time often used to decide “yes” on buying it. Without that time in some cases, we left the dealership undecided, realizing shortly later we should just look at some more vehicles.
We’re happy with the Ford Escape, so right now I’d say I like car shopping. But if I have to do this again any time soon, my opinion might change.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Oct. 7, 2011.
In my lifetime, I’ve purchased eight vehicles, starting with a 1979 Pontiac Sunbird I purchased as my first car 20 years ago, through the 2008 Ford Escape I purchased last week.
The Sunbird was a clunker. I bought it from my boss who somehow convinced me it would be the perfect starter vehicle. Maybe it could have been, if it had actually started on most of the days I owned it. It sat in our driveway an entire winter, unable to start.
When it finally did start in the spring, my dad told me to take it to the gas station and put some new gas in it. That was almost its final voyage, as a drunk driver coming into the city of Berlin at speeds nearing 100 miles an hour somehow weaved around my 25 m.p.h. moving turtle right into the rear end of a vehicle ahead of me. Fortunately, none of the people in either vehicle were seriously injured, although I was on the witness list for possible litigation but was never called to testify.
I retired the Sunbird a few months later, purchasing a Chevrolet Z24 right before going off to college. That sports vehicle was a mistake, as the insurance cost more than my car payments. I sold it a year later and got a much more practical four-door Chevrolet car. It was so boring I can’t remember its year or model, but it was reliable enough that it got me through my remaining years of college.
I traded it in for a 1994 Mercury Sable in 1997. I’m not sure what possessed me to purchase it, because I never really liked it. It was what my friends called an “old person’s car.” It was a bigger vehicle more suited for a family of four than a bachelor with a limited gas budget, even at a time when gas was inexpensive.
During this time, I met my future wife, Jennifer, who was driving a beater she had gotten years ago from her grandparents. I’m pretty sure neither of us was attracted to the other for our vehicles.
Shortly before we got married, she traded in her beater for a 2000 Plymouth Neon. We traded in the Mercury for a 2003 Buick Rendezvous a few years later, and apparently just in time, too. When we returned from the dealer after bringing in the Mercury, we noticed a big chunk of the car in our driveway. I’m not even sure what the part was, but I’m happy it wasn’t needed to make the journey to the dealership.
The Rendezvous was a good vehicle, but it died of the fate that should have happened to the Sunbird: a drunk driver rear-ended it when Jennifer was attempting to pick me up from work. Fortunately the drunk driver wasn’t speeding, but the damage was enough to total the car.
Losing the Rendezvous meant we had to replace it. We bought an older vehicle, a 1999 Honda CRV, but it only had 60,000 miles on it and it was like new.
For the last four years we’ve been racking up miles on the Neon and Honda. The Neon was up to 194,000 miles and the Honda has 174,000 miles. Knowing it’s not wise to have two 200,000-mile vehicles, we started shopping for a new vehicle about a month ago.
For the first time ever, we went to multiple dealers. In the past, we usually bought the first vehicle we liked in our price range at the first dealer we stopped at. This strategy has usually worked out, but there have been times we’ve questioned if we could have gotten a better vehicle.
We may have gone to more dealers this time because of something new we’ve noticed at some of the dealers: the car salesman gets in the car with you for a test drive, after you fill out a mini-application to go on a test drive. I understand why they do it – I wouldn’t want anybody running off with a vehicle either – but it intrudes on some of the time couples spend talking with each other about the vehicle, time often used to decide “yes” on buying it. Without that time in some cases, we left the dealership undecided, realizing shortly later we should just look at some more vehicles.
We’re happy with the Ford Escape, so right now I’d say I like car shopping. But if I have to do this again any time soon, my opinion might change.
****
Originally published in The Portage County Gazette on Friday, Oct. 7, 2011.
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