People As We Know Them

Well, today was muggy but beautiful. I found myself washing trays this morning and thinking, "I am not even using 10% of my brain capacity doing this." So I began talking with myself, to get some cerebral juices flowing. Incidentally I had quite the conversation with myself, but at one point I got stuck because I couldn't think of what I wanted to say. I was trying to imagine myself as a 90 year old woman, and I was wondering if I would have lost my mind by then. Then I added (to clarify for myself),

"But this is only metaphorically speaking... Is it metaphorical? No... That's not the word I want. What's that one word? I used to say it all the time..." It bugged me and bugged me, until I waylaid one of my managers and he helped me out.

"Hypothetically speaking."

"Thank you so much! Hypothetically speaking."

He looked at me oddly and I continued to humbly wipe trays. Have you ever had that happen to you? Where you just...can't...remember? Or worse - a song is going through your head and you keep humming it and you can't figure out where it's from. That's pretty much the worst thing that can happen to you, because it's easy to explain a word that you can't think of, but it's a lot more humbling to try to hum the song swimming around in your head (especially if you get all the lyrics wrong, and the person just looks at you, like, "O-kay....") I hate that when someone looks at me like I'm wierd. It really is interesting to me, though, how some of the wierdest people in the world consider everybody else wierd. (Hopefully that doesn't come back to bite me-lol.)

Speaking of forgetfulness, my whole family has been asking each other all day, "So, have you heard the news about Brett Favre? You know... how he had is officially last day on Lambeau Field today." Pretty sure I heard that on the radio like twice, and then my mom told me about it as she read it on the internet, and then my dad just asked my mom if she heard the news. What's funnier yet, is that each time I heard it "announced" it was as though each person "announcing it" had breaking news and they were the first to share it. "Did you know..." People make me laugh (which means I have an ongoing affair of amusement with myself).

Did you know that the study of people is called 'anthropology'? I knew that, I just thought I would make sure you did. I should major in 'anthropology' instead of 'journalism'. It's just that I find both the study of people and their effect on the world so interesting, I can't help but write about both. It's not that I'm a young, fresh, wet-behind-the-ears intern who is exhaustingly excited about intricate political affairs. No. I am a person who happens to be young and happens to be interested in the things going on around me. If I happen to live in America, and my country happens to be winning a war in a foreign country, well, then I find that interesting. And... if my coworker begins complaining about a customer, or my mom confesses to me how many chips she ate in one day, well, that's interesting too. (Granted, it get's a little boring if someone talks about how 'good' so and so is. That doesn't interest me. Give me blood, betrayal, and sarcasm any day.)

I think it was yesterday that I was writing something down about myself that was horribly conceited (and I quote), "I marvel that I can both observe and interact with my fellow man so well". That's like ASKING to get jinxed. And, yes, today I was completely uninterested in conversing with customer after customer, saying the same old thing to each uninterested person.

ME: "Hi!" (Said brightly for emphasis), "How you doing?" (Joey style)

THEM: "Yeah, I'm doing good, good. Real good. And you?" (Shutup, and give me my food all ready)

ME: "Well, I'm doing well, thank you. It's a beautiful day!"

THEM: (silence)

ME: "Well, your sandwich will be out in a little bit, but until then you can decide what you would like on your sandwich. Did you know whether you would like to eat here or to go?"

THEM: "Yeah, to go. I'll take (and the rambling ensues)."

See, I've discovered that if I try to save time and say the exact same thing to every customer, not every customer responds the same. You may say that all they want is their sandwich, but that is rarely true. People (myself included) really do want to be treated like they matter. Thus, I must prove my individual ability to make every customers' sandwich... over, and over, and over, and over again. So, I should probably not do what I did today - and totally bomb the whole "I care about you, what can I get for you" customer service thing.

I did see one of my old metivante customers today. That was really pleasant! He was actually nice, AND he asked how I was doing! I had to hurry and go put trays away, but I felt all warm and skippy when I walked. It's really nice to feel loved and cared about.

There. That's my people study. And I conclude that if everybody is just like me, well, they honestly just want people to treat them with respect, treat them with understanding, treat them with something other than a company line, and treat them with love.

Thus, a sandwich made with love still applies. Stop looking at me like I'm wierd.

I hate that, remember?

The Weather of Death, Speedway Cappuccinos, and the Showdown of Debates

Romney has dropped out of the presidential race, and about the only thing captivating my interest now is the weather. It’s friggin cold. My dad, brother, and I were traveling home from church tonight, and I moaned, “This is how I will die.” And then I shuddered violently, for good measure.

Luckily for Jon and I, my father is a Speedway cappuccino fanatic. I do mean fanatic. Church comes hand in hand with cappuccinos. On the way home from evening services, we always amble into Speedway and fill ourselves up THE stuff. “Do you think tonight is a CAP night?”, my father asked casually. (we have become so intimate with cappuccino’s - that they are now CAPs). We looked at him dryly, knowing there was no response necessary, and my brother maneuvered us smoothly into the front most Speedway parking lot. I opened my door, narrowly avoiding an iceberg of snow to my right, and we entered our Speedway with the utmost familiarity. My Dad nodded friendly-like to all of the gas-station attendants. (We are some of their most faithful regulars, so they nod back and smile.)

With steaming cappuccinos’ in red-and-blue mottled fists, we ran to the car. It’s funny to see people run in odd weather. Have you ever noticed that? Rain brings it out in most people. If you ever sit in a parking-lot long enough during a rain-storm, you can watch people dodging and flailing over cement and then fumbling with umbrellas so they can dive into the safety of their car. It becomes amusing. Cold, therefore, is doubly amusing, because people have nothing to dodge, and yet there they are - running with scrunched up shoulders and pinched faces so that they may fumble with their keys and dive into their cars.
As the car warmed up, and I continued chattering (I’m sure the two had no connection whatsoever), a discussion arose.

Question stated: How many electrical lights are there in Milwaukee?

A thought for pondering, to be sure. Jon provoked my thoughts by adding, “I have one for you. Are there more street lights than people?”

“No,” I said easily. There was no debate there for me.

But he continued, “What makes you so sure?”

“Think of all the cars that pass by the street lights. There are dozens more cars than streetlights, and there could be dozens of people represented by a couple cars.”

“But I’m not referring to cars. The cars may just be a passin through. I’m referring to people within residences.”

“Still, there are far more people to my right and my left than there are street lights before me.” (I thought that was profound)

He pointed to my left, “Ah, but there are street lights to your left.”

“No, those are parking lot lights. You didn’t say parking lot lights. You said street lights.”

Sparring often doesn’t need much of a reason in my family, and it’s strikingly evident in our most avid debates.

The man came out in my dear brother and he challenged, “But I meant parking lots, too. All lights.”

“Then, where is the end? No, you said street lights, and since you did not specify clearer, the parking lot lights are parking lot lights, not street lights.” I sat there smugly, and could see I had won the issue.

“Still,” he defended bravely (for it takes a certain amount of bravery to defy me), “There are two street lights on every pole.”

“Ah, but did you say poles? No, you said street light. Oo -- and if you think about it, light that floods a street is ONE continuous light. So, my dear brother, you see you are beat. There cannot possibly be more light than people, because light is one continuum. This light here is all street light.”

His knuckles gripped the wheel hard, and if my peripheral vision served me correctly, I’d say his silent, grim face was a testament to my victory.