Breaking and Entering

One of my quirky ideas of fun is to visit seasonal towns off season. I seem to get a thrill visiting New England in March when the leaves are just budding, Paris in foggy November and 120 degree Las Vegas in July.  The lack of people and going against the grain has always given me a thrill.

Michigan living provides a lot of opportunities to fuel my weird desire. As with many northern states, Michigan is proud to boast two seasons: Summer from June through August and the other: Fal-ter-ing, lasting from September through May.  Temperatures can vary anywhere between minus twenty and seventy. My favorite part of Faltering is the early part when the leaves are bursting with reds and yellow, followed closely by the holiday part, thirdly is the part when it snows on the fresh green grass and flowers.

One cold January afternoon, I decided it would be fun to drive up to Frankenmuth, a small tourist town in mid Michigan. It was about one degree outside, so since it was still above zero, I thought “why not”?  It would be a perfect chance to see the city without all the hustle and bustle of the summertime chaos. Frankemuth does it’s best to impersonate a quaint German village. The waitresses in the restaurants wear those cute little plaid German outfits, while men are garbed with lederhosen. The town has three claims to fame. The first is Bronner’s Christmas Village-an enormous holiday store that resembles the North Pole on steroids and offers everything from traditional Christmas tree lights to the troublesome statue of Santa praying over the baby Jesus. The second and third “not to be missed” stops are Zehnder’s and The Bavarian Inn. Both of theses are eating establishments specializing in family style dining. What this really means is if someone were to crave an upscale red-necked fried chicken dinner complete with a side dish of creamed cholesterol followed by a dessert of angio-plasty,-a la mode, either of these restaurants would be sure to satisfy their taste buds.

After convincing my friend Ed that it would be fun, by promising him that after we survived the hour and a half drive on an extremely icy freeway, we’d have a blast visiting the local pubs, we were on our way. “I can hardly wait to sink my teeth into that chicken” I said as I had a death-grip on my steering wheel and hardly being able to see through the frosty windshield. “I can almost taste the mashed potatoes and gravy right now”.  Ed just replied with a “you’re going too fast, slow down” and finally “why did I let you talk me into this?”

Three hours later we pulled into historic Frankenmuth. I decided we didn’t need to make reservations. Who else goes to Frankenmuth on a frigid Sunday in January? Our first conquest was to find a place to sleep for the evening. “I’m sure someone will have openings” I reassured Ed as we passed our fifth hotel with a sign saying “Closed for the Season”, some even giving the all assuring “See you in May”.

We were rapidly approaching the end of the city limits, and I was starting to abandon hope. It was one thing when the hotels were shut down, but another when all the bars had red glowing “closed” signs in their windows.  I finally admitted that maybe risking our lives to drive to this  Deutchland wanna-be town was not my brightest idea. As I was looking for a place to turn around to head back to the now pitch black, icy highway, I saw the word “vacancy” flashing in red neon. “See” I said, “not only is something opened, it looks charming”.  It was a small, quaint hotel done in the typical Bavarian style-white stucco with brown wooden cross beams. There was only one car in the parking lot, probably the night manager’s, but at least it was open.

We parked the car, grabbed our overnight bags and proceeded to go inside. As I reached the door, I gently tried to pull it open. LOCKED. The lights were on so I was certain someone was inside. I kept pulling on the door thinking that maybe it would magically open on the tenth or eleventh try. Ed, in the meantime, rang the doorbell under a sign that I missed instructing visitors after five to ring for service. After a minute or two, a large, big- boned German women (at least I think she was a women), answered the door. “Vailcum”, she mumbled. It was a good thing I remembered certain German words from the semester I took of German in the eighth grade.  “That means welcome” I interpreted for Ed. He just looked at me with that “shut up” look that I often get. “You vant a room?” Helga asked. Thinking, it was funny, I replied with “Vell, yes, ve do, ve are very very cold and vould like a varm room”. Helga must have picked up on the look Ed just gave me, because she suddenly had the same ‘say another word and you’re dead” glare.

I decided Helga was not in the mood for my attempt at German humor, so I just proceeded to check in. “You vill be in Room Ny-en”, she said. I desperately wanted to inform her that the number nine only has one syllable, but I chose to leave that comment in my head.  She grabbed our bags and escorted us to our chamber.  It was not the fanciest room I’ve ever been in, but it would work, it was clean, had a television and heat.

After putting my things away, and freshening up, it was time for a cocktail.  We put on our parkas and ventured out to the frozen tundra of mid-Michigan to search for the local watering hole. Luck must have been on our side, because we didn’t even have to drive. Across the street was a charming pub, with the same décor as the rest of Frankenmuth, called Das Bar.

Das Bar was really cute. It had two pool tables, three dart boards and a long wooden shelf stocked with a full line of libations. We settled in by drinking our fair share of das seven and seven’s and playing a couple games of das billiards. An hour later, the crowd of four was dwindling and we found we were the only two left. “Let’s see what else is going on in town” Ed said. It seemed like a good idea, after-all, the night was still young and we were feeling no pain.

As we walked the crunchy, icy sidewalks through downtown Frankenmuth, we hardly noticed that our extremities were beginning to freeze. We felt just fine as we searched for another pub that stayed open past the hour of Nyen o’clock. As we continued to search for the next happening place, I was starting to get cold.

“Nnnnnot, mmmuch, happpennning” I shivered out. “NNNNo, mayyybee, wwweee shshshshould hhhead bbbacck to the hohotel”, Ed said through chattering teeth.

Then we saw it. At first, I thought it was a mirage.  Before our eyes was a cozy, inviting cottage-looking store. All the lights were one and I could see a fireplace through the windows and smoke billowing out of the chimney. We both ran as fast as our leg-sicle’s let us. I didn’t care if this store sold exercise equipment, I was going to act like I was interested in their items until my eyeballs thawed out. “Brrrr”, I announced as I entered the warm environment. We stomped our icy feet on the willkommen mat, took off our hats and gloves, wiped our fogged glasses off with our scarves and began our act of being “interested” in what they sold so our bodies could regain conscienceness.

“They have really nice things, maybe you can find your sister a birthday present”, I  said. It was a high-end home accessory store. The displays were really unique. They had it set up like a home. “It must be an interior design store” I said.  “You’re right”, Ed replied, “because nothing has prices on them”. “You must have to order them”, I said, acting like I knew how Interior Design Studio’s worked.  We continued browsing around when a sharply dressed sales women approached us to see if we would like some assistance. I told her we were “just looking”. I was certain she worked on commission, so I assured her we would find her if we needed to purchase something. She gave me a look like I was crazy and walked away. I know we didn’t fit the bill of the average shopper in this store, but she didn’t have to be rude, I thought. We were the only two in the store and I was pretty sure they wanted us to buy something because less than a minute later, another sales person, this time a preppy looking gentleman in his fifties approached us and asked if we needed some help. He didn’t ask us in the “can I please help you” sort of way, it was more like “you look like you really need help”.  Again, I told him we were just looking around. I was starting to get peeved. This was before Pretty Woman, but I felt like Julia Roberts did in that scene when the clerks wouldn’t wait on her because she looked “different”.

They offered a wide selection of gift items, some my taste, and some not.

I noticed a curio cabinet in the corner that housed various little German knick knacks. As I walked over to get a closer look, I noticed another department, this one resembling a dining room. It had a large rectangular dining table, an antique china cabinet and a tea- cart in the corner. It looked very homey. The employees must have been celebrating someone’s birthday because they were all gathered around the dining table and big birthday cake was in the center. “No wonder they looked at us so strangely” I thought, “the store must be closed and they stayed open after hours to celebrate a birthday”. Immediately embarrassed, I told Ed my suspicions and that we should probably go. Ignoring me, he was looking at the picture frames. “This would be a great gift for my sister for her birthday”, he said. “Do you think they would let me purchase it or do you think I’ll have to order it?” he asked. I looked closer at the frame. It was really pretty, and keeping with the uniqueness of the shop, instead of a stock photo of a model inside, it had a picture of a familiar looking husband and wife in front of Frankenmuth’s Bavarian Inn”.  Then I noticed the other frames, they all had familiar faces inside them. Upon closer inspection, I realized the reason the people looked so familiar was because I had just met two of them and saw the others were sitting around the dining table. At that moment I noticed something disturbing, the sofa was slightly worn, the lamp shades were crooked and in the corner sat an old television.  I suddenly realized why this lovely store resembled a home. BECAUSE IT WAS A HOME! We had just broken into someone’s house! The two sales people who were stalking us were talking on the phone in the corner and looking at us. I heard them give their address to the other party, which I’m pretty certain was Frankenmuth’s finest.

Once I realized that we were seconds away from being arrested-again, this time for breaking and entering, I went into survivor mode. I knew we had to get out of there quick. Hoping not to a create a panic, I said in as quiet of voice as possible and without moving my lips, “We- have- to -leave –now.” It was obvious that Ed was still clueless that we were about to be thrown into the big house, because he insisted that he wanted to stay because it was the only open store in town and it was below zero outside. “You don’t understand”, I said, with a bit more volume, “THIS IS NOT A STORE, WE ARE IN THE MIDDLE OF SOMEONE’S LIVING ROOM AND WE HAVE TO RUN-FAST!!!!”

Ed quickly put down the purple paperweight that he thought would make a great gift and the two of us ran out the nearest exit laughing and didn't stop until we reached the safety of Das Hotel. 

We decided to wait until Monday morning to do anymore shopping.

The Night Visitor.

 The following is a excerpt from one of the chapters in a book I'm writing about my life events. This one takes place in Costa Rica and involves an uninvited guest. 

After checking in and downing our welcome cocktail, we were escorted to a beautiful room high on a cliff overlooking an endless ocean. It was stunning. The rooms are all separate and connected by a wooden walkway. I immediately put my survival package of M&M’s in the safe. I had a fear that chocolate may not be readily available and decided at the last minute to purchase my fix from the airport in advance. After acclimating us to our room and the resort, Jaffit, our bellman or as I like to call him, my Sherpa, made certain we knew one of the resort’s most important rules-don’t leave the lights on at night for very long. “You see, bugs are attracted to the light and because of their natural curiosity may find their way into your room.” With that he bid us a farewell and we were on our own. 

We enjoyed our first afternoon in paradise by relaxing on the balcony. I began a great book while Anthony started work on his watercolor.

Before we knew it, it was time for dinner. Before leaving the room, I wanted to create a little mood lighting for when we returned. This is something I always do, I think it’s nice to come home to a warm, welcoming place, especially in the middle of the jungle. There was a dim light about three feet above the bed that was angled toward the ceiling. It was perfect, just enough glow so we could see when we come back, and not too much to attract bugs. Satisfied by my lighting design, we made the journey to the dining room.

 The walk to dinner was romantic. The sun was just starting to set and with the ocean on one side and the rain forest noises on the other, I was really starting to love it here. The dining room was a large, open air cabana that had just enough seating for all the guests. The best part was that they let us sit by ourselves. Another concern conquered. I hate when I’m forced to eat with people I don’t know. The food was much better than I expected, the drinks were strong and the wait staff was very friendly. This was going to be a great week.

When we finished our after-dinner drink, we began the stroll back to the room. “Boy, I’m glad I left that light on”, I said “it sure did get dark”. I mean darker than dark. You couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. Part of our pre-trip planning was to bring these “headlights”. They sort of looked like those lights that minors strap on their forehead so you can have the advantage of both seeing in the dark and the use of both hands.  Perfect for mining or in my case fighting off dangerous animals. 

We were both exhausted from the long day of traveling, the shaman incident, and our cocktails. The bed sounded so inviting. As we were both getting ready for bed I don’t know what possessed me to look up, but I’m sure glad I did. The fact I didn’t faint is beyond me, because the “bug” I saw attracted to my mood light was a spider the size of my hand-and that was just his body! His eight furry legs were about four inches long and I could literally see him catching little gnats and devouring them RIGHT ABOVE MY BED! “Ahhh, ahhh, ahhh, I, ahhh, think we have a problem” was all I could muster. With a shaky point of my finger I guided Anthony’s eyes up to this hideous monster. I admit, from time to time, I can over-react, but not this time. Anthony just said “oh no, that is not acceptable”.  We quickly put our headlights back on and walked briskly down the path that now didn’t seem nearly as romantic. The charming sounds of the rain forest from earlier now sounded like background music from The Omen and the ocean now resembled nothing but a black hole ready to swallow us up. When we finally arrived back at the Dining Room, we paused. This was our first night, we did leave a light on after being warned not to, and we were in the middle of the rain forest. “Let’s not make ourselves look too sissy-ish”, Anthony said, “let’s gather our senses and be calm”.

The only two people left were my Sherpa, Jaffat and another guy. “Hi, Jaffat, you know, we really should have taken your advice about that whole ‘don’t leave a light on thing’, but we thought what could one little light hurt”. He immediately knew what was going on and said, “you have a visitor?” “More like an evil, uninvited guest” I replied. With that, he could tell by our drenched foreheads and quivering voices that he needed to come to our room and check things out. He grabbed a broom, which I knew wouldn’t be sufficient. “You may need something bigger than that” I said, “like a gun”. He dismissed my attempt at Sherpa humor with a laugh and shrug of his shoulders.

Arriving back at the room with our savior, I had this horrible thought, “what if the spider wasn’t there”. It would be like in the movies when the bad guy gets killed and when the hero returns, his body is missing. You know he’s still alive and he’s going to make a surprise attack.

As Jaffat opened our door and bravely entered first, I whispered “up there”. I don’t know why I whispered, it’s not like the spider from Hell can understand English. Our hero slowly walked toward the thing that I swear had gotten even bigger from our first encounter. He examined it for what seemed an eternity until Anthony finally said “Well?” Jaffat’s only determination was “not good, not bad” Whatever that meant, I told him he wasn’t leaving until this “not good not bad” creature with multiple eyes and legs was destroyed. The Super Sherpa took one fall swoop with his weapon and knocked this animal to the ground. He then said “good night”. WHAT? This thing was somewhere on the ground behind my headboard. I wanted evidence that it was dead because if it wasn’t, it was now really mad and I knew it would demand revenge. Jaffat took his broom and swept the carcass out from under the bed and across the floor. “Oh, look”, he said, “the unts are doing their job”. “Unts?” I questioned, as I turned to see what he meant. These unts were actually ants that apparently were hiding in the walls, watching and waiting for the American tourists have their Sherpa kill the grotesque, man eating insect, so they could have their meal.

As soon as Jaffat left, I somehow leaped into bed without touching the floor, grabbed the once charming mosquito net and wrapped it around my body so tight, I was slowly mummifying myself.

When the sun finally came up in what seemed like a decade, we both looked over at where we last saw the spider. It was gone. It seems the unts did indeed do their job.

Cheers!

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I am what you’d call Star Struck. Whenever Anthony and I are in an airport, restaurant or on a big city street, my eyes are always wondering around to see whom I can spot. It hasn’t failed me yet.  My knack for star spotting has given me the chance to see and even meet many celebrities. My star-stalking resume includes Susan Sarandon, Ed Begley Jr., Jude Law, Seinna Miller, Robert Downey Jr., Macaulay Culkin (I think he’s still a star), Michael Jordan (I collided with him in a hallway-ouch), Tim Allen, Faye Dunaway, Andrew Lloyd Weber, Leslie Ann Warren (this one was funny, it involved an accident report-look for the future blog) and actually shared drinks and dessert with Darryl Hannah (again, another blog).

My most recent star encounter happened in the salon.

It was 5:00 on a Wednesday night. I was getting ready to go home and the front desk asked if I could “cut this guy’s hair”. He was staying at The Townsend Hotel, which is right across the street and he wandered in for a haircut. We had just gotten back from Paris the day before and I was a little tired, so I blame jet lag for my behavior.

I’ve been told from time to time that I have “the gift of gab”. I don’t think of it so much as a gift, but more of a skill. I read in a book once that people love to talk about themselves. If I don’t have anything interesting to share, it’s best to simply ask them questions about their lives and let them do all the talking. Most of the time, my little skill is a great  conversation tool, but once in a while, when I’m tired, hungry or insecure it can get me into trouble.  

After consulting with my client I started to cut his hair. I also started to talk. A lot. “Where are you from” was my first inquiry. The familiar looking gentleman said he was visiting from southern California. “Oh, you are so lucky, I love it there” I babbled, “it’s one of my favorite places”. I continued with “I have a really good friend that lives there, although I doubt that you know her, her name is Dana, although maybe you do, wouldn’t that be weird? I just got back from Paris, blah, blah, blah”.

I haven’t the slightest idea why in this situation, I felt the need to try and impress this guy. For some reason I felt it necessary to let him see my “cool” side. 

Trying to put the focus back on him, the next question in my line of fire was “so, what brings you to Michigan?” He told me he is an actor and was in town shooting a commercial for a health drink. I’m still not sure why I couldn’t simply have told him a little bit about our city and offer restaurant suggestions. Instead I replied with “I’m an actor too, I also direct, sing and I write a blog” Inside I was telling myself to shut up, but I couldn’t, I just kept going and going and going.  I continued with “living in California, you must see a lot of stars. I’m really star struck, I’ve met so many stars, I don’t know why, but I always seem to see them, I even had drinks with Darryl Hannah once".  On and on I went. I finally took a breath by asking him what famous people he has seen.

This poor guy finally had a small window to say something. “Well, actually I know Darryl Hannah too”. At this point during our one sided conversation, I started to think not only did he look familiar, but he sounded familiar too.  If I only allowed him to talk, maybe I could have figured it out. Instead I went on by asking him if he thinks she’s prettier in person too.  He said, he thought she is pretty inside and out. I’m a hairdresser, that’s supposed to be my line, I thought. 

“Who else have you met?” I asked as I continued my nervous chatter. He paused and told me that two of his best friends were Kirstie Alley and Ted Danson. This was followed by a very looooonnnnng pause. The light bulb was starting to flicker. I was slowly beginning to recognize my customer and I was clueless what to say next.  So, out came “oh, they’re kind of funny”. “Kind of funny”, not “really funny” or “very funny”. I had to say “kind of funny.”

If I could have simply disappeared, I would have.

The reason he knows Sam and Rebecca from Cheers is because he starred right along side them. I couldn’t believe it. How did I not recognized this man? I was a huge Cheers fan. He was in my living room for 30 minutes every Thursday night at 9 p.m. And the reason his voice sounded so familiar is because on the plane the very day before, I watched Toy Story Three and he was the voice of the pig.  I was cutting John Ratzenberger's hair.

I had no idea how to get out of this. My tongue was so tied it couldn’t form a single word.

I had spent the past twenty minutes telling this successful actor all about me. I had a golden opportunity to be discovered and I blew it.

Needless to say, the next time I have the opportunity to meet someone famous, like Johnny Depp, I’ll be sure to tell him that I’m a hairdresser to the stars and offer him a haircut.

You Gotta Have Art.

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One Summer I was bored. It takes a lot for me to be bored because I'm always either involved in a theatre production or I am writing. It actually was a new experience for me. I’m usually really great at entertaining myself, but this particular summer it just wasn’t happening.

Anthony had taken a class at the local art school. He and a friend signed up for Drawing 101. I told him it was so he could see the nude models, but he insisted it was to fill his artistic need. Previously, we had both taken a private water color class taught by a retired art teacher. We used to go every Monday morning and paint. Mine always had a slight “naïve” edge to it as the teacher would put it.  Of course, I took this as a compliment. She thinks I see life innocently.

To cure my summer boredom, I convinced my friend Chrissey to enroll in a water-color class with me. Before moving to California, my best girlfriend and I used to dabble in all sorts of activities. We always wanted to better ourselves and we made this pack to do all the things we’ve always talked about doing. One time we decided that we had to learn another language. So, we took private Spanish lessons. We found this high school tutor and we met every week at a Starbucks. I think in ten classes, $400, and many Vente Cappuccinos  later all I could say was “the white cat is drinking milk”, a phrase that would totally come in handy if I was ever in Guadalajara and saw a feline named Snowball drinking milk and felt the need to report it to the local authorities. Another time, Chrissey or “my Ethel” as I liked to call her,  and I took a Ballroom dance class. It was during that period of my life that I realized I have absolutely no rhythm. “No, step, two, three Jeff” Ethel would scold, “not back, two!” When Chrissey started to lead, because I  didn't know how, I finally realized that my dream of becoming the next Fred Astaire was not going to happen. 

I was convinced this water-color class was going to be my calling. I was destined to be the Rembrandt of the 21^st Century.

The teacher was again a former retired high school art teacher. Not the kind of art teacher that wears moo-moo’s, a headband and eats granola. This one was the unmarried, uptight, hair in a bun sort of teacher. I always thought art was subjective until this class. She made me understand it wasn’t and there is indeed good and bad art.

On the first day, we had to go around the room and introduce ourselves and share a little bit about us to the class. I’ve always despised this sort of ice-breaker. I’m always so nervous about what I’m going to say that I don’t even listen to the others. But seriously, no one cares that Susie over in the corner is a stay at home mom with two children and spends her days working on her annual Labor Day Luau, or if the guy that looks like the uni-bomber has six pit bulls-really! When it was my turn, I’m not quite sure what possessed my body, but something inside me blurted out “I’m Jeff, I’m a hairdresser, I write, I act, direct community theatre and I’ve had extensive training as an artist” Extensive training. I don’t think I’ve had extensive training in anything, let alone art. Needless to say, I set my own bar pretty high.

Our first lesson was to sketch something that made us happy. Easy, I thought, I’ll just draw a big bottle of scotch. Chrissey told me that maybe I should think of something a little deeper, so I settled on flowers. They don’t really make me happy, but I faked it. As the two of us sat side by side, the teacher would come over to observe our work. “Interesting” was her comment to me. “Very good composition” is what Chrissey got. Followed by “Jeff, look at your friend’s work, isn’t she good?”

The next week, we had to take our sketches and paint them. Patience has never been one of my virtues, so water-color isn’t the best medium for me. I’d be better suited creating my masterpiece with something that doesn’t have to take the time to dry, like crayons.

Again, the teacher made her way around the room critiquing our work. I’d hear, “very good work Teri”, “nice eye for detail Bob”, “Oh Chrissey, your choices of color are marvelous”. I got “Hmmm, well…., hey, did you get a haircut?.” Of course followed with “Look at Chrissey’s, she is just so talented”.

By week three I was starting to develop an attitude toward this teacher. Chrissey would laugh it off by trying to convince me that I was good and the teacher really didn’t mean anything by her comments. Easy for her to say.

One week she told me I would be a good children’s book illustrator. I couldn't believe it. She had finally thrown me a bone. My praise was short lived though, because she followed it up with “because you draw so, well now,  how should I say it, well, because you draw so big and without all those details”. I thought “listen you old maid, your bun is ugly and I hate you”. I replied with “why, thank you, it is something I’ve always thought about doing, especially  because I just adore sticky little children”. I concluded by telling  her I’d work on my tendency to draw big and next week I’ll make it my goal to to draw smaller and with more detail. “Good Idea” she said before moving on. This was war.

I know I draw big. I think big and I live big, so it only makes sense, but I decided that the next week I would make an effort to grow my skills by taking her criticism and making it constructive.  As we all sat at our drawing table, with our brushes and paints, our darling teacher announced that this week we would be illustrating a sunflower and she wanted us all to do it larger than life. Meaning big. The bitch knew I was going to work on my details and make an effort to slim it down. Chrissey finally admitted that maybe this lady did have it in for me after-all.

Again, I did my usual “big” piece of work and again, she said for the twentieth time “look at Chrissey’s, isn’t she good?” This little mantra of her's was really working my last nerve. Every single class, I had to look at Chrissey’s rendition and hear a commentary about how her style is so graceful, and how her pieces each tell a story. All the while I got things like “well, Jeff, you sure look like you have fun when you paint”.

I missed the second to the last class and I was really happy too. She made them all paint a self-portrait. I’m sure mine would have been over-sized and resemble The Jolly Green Giant- without any details.

On the final day of class, Chrissey couldn’t attend. So it was just going to be me. Well at least she can’t get in one last “look at Chrissey’s” I thought. As everyone in the class started their final day of painting, Satan once again began creeping around. When she got to me I really wondered what she was going to say. She didn’t have Chrissey to compare me to this week, so I couldn't wait to hear what other evilness was she going to evoke on me. “Well, look at your’s Jeff” She followed this with “you know, you really should have been here last week and saw Chrissey’s.” That was it! My blood started to boil.  I had taken ten weeks of this and today was going to be my last chance to tell her a thing or two. It didn’t go as planned. Do you ever wish you knew in advance that you were going to have the perfect opportunity to say something just right? I can think of a million things I would have loved to say to this troll, but I couldn't think of any.  So I decided to insult Chrissey's self portrait instead. I screamed in a somewhat shaky voice  “I SAW CHRISSEY’S UGLY PAINTING AND SHE MADE HERSELF LOOK LIKE HILLARY CLINTON! IT WAS NOT GOOD (dramatic pause) AT ALL!!!!! So, instead of seizing the opportunity to put this fiend in her place, I made myself look like a spoiled, jealous, and slightly angry starving artist.

As I left class for that last time, I decided it was time to take a breather from my water-color period.

Two weeks later, I found myself sitting in a pottery class-without Chrissey.

You be the judge.

  

My most recent attempt at art, I call it a portrait of Anthony (while on my fourth scotch)

 

Tip of the Day.

Going to the coffee shop, car wash or even the gas station has been presenting a dilemma lately. I love my coffee, I am what you could call anal about my car and I love Ho-Ho’s, a delicacy one can only purchase at the local Amaco.

One of my first jobs was counter boy at Dunkin’ Donuts. I applied to be a “donut finisher”, even though I didn’t know what that meant, but they offered me a position as the morning counter boy instead. This meant getting up at 5 a.m. to arrive at Michigan’s only Kosher Dunkin’ Donuts by 6. Mind you, I’m not Jewish, but I felt if I had to work at a place that couldn’t even add the ‘g’ to the end of their trademark name, at least I could work at an establishment that had some claim to fame.

This was my introduction to public service. It was my first job where being nice and giving good service was reflected in the form of a gratuity. It’s also where I learned to appreciate and show the wait staff how grateful I am for good service-even if it is to a fault. You see, I seem to have a problem of over-tipping:  If the waitperson smiles at me, I give an immediate 25%, if they offer to take my coat, it’s 30% and if they tell me the specials and promise to “hold one for me because there’s only one left”, they become the beneficiary to my life insurance policy. Maybe it’s because my expectations of good customer service has dwindled over the past few year, but I find myself wanting to hug the waitress when she announces the soup du jour without my asking. I’m ready to purpose to the waiter who tells me his name.

Unfortunately one of the side effects of my over-tipping disorder is the dread I feel when I’m not 100 percent sure the waitperson knows I tipped them. The mere thought of them watching me leave the restaurant with thoughts of “look, there goes the cheapest guy on earth” makes me break out in hives. The only remedy to my phobia is to watch them receive the tip and wait for a reply or reaction. Most of the time it’s a subtle “do you need change” or “thank you, have a good night” and an occasional smile a wink. Whatever it is, I crave it. If I don’t get this simple satisfaction, I simply can’t leave the building until I know they are aware it was me who contributed to their retirement fund and helped with their mortgage.

This entire issue didn’t affect my daily life until recently. There was a time when tipping was just expected in restaurants and hair salons. Today it seems anyone who has a pulse and is able to put your muffin into a bag requires an extra 20%. I’m not sure who invented this policy that tortures me, but I think they should be hanged. I now can’t even go into the men’s room without helping the guy who sprays me with a cologne I don’t even like, put his youngest child through college. It seems everywhere I turn, there is a clear container that says “Tips” with a smile face on it, like that makes it less intrusive. I’m well aware I could just leave my loose change, but I know they will notice and shoot me. If the tip in the jar doesn’t have a president’s face on it and is made of paper, I’m convinced I will be shunned from the establishment for the rest of my life.

This phobia all came to a head one day. I was at a bakery getting lunch. As I looked at the pastries, I opted for a bowl of soup and a roll. The smiling young man rang up my order and gave me my change. I looked down and saw the familiar jar with the slogan “we rely on our tips” looking at me with a vengeance. I have a reputation now, if my bill is 4.99 and I give them a ten, they inevitably have no more 5’s. “All I have is five singles if that’s o.k.” he says. “No problem” I reply, knowing full well that he knows I won’t leave a five, but will “happily” drop a single into his new car fund. 

As he hands me my change-five singles and one shiny penny- I take one of the dollars and drop it into the friendly jar. The problem was, he turned away at the same moment to get my soup. HE HAD NO IDEA! At this point I had two choices, either wait until he turned back so he could see me drop another dollar in, or go with plan B, the option I probably should not have taken. As his back was turned, I quickly stuck my hand in the jar and pulled my dollar back out. In my head it was going to be easy-just retrieve the buck, wait until he is looking at me and drop it back in and leave-simple. The wrinkle in my plan occurred when he realized he forgot to ask me if it was for here or to go. As he turned in what seemed like the speed of light, his friendly smile turned to one of accusing horror. He just busted me stealing his tips. I was speechless.  I had no clue what to say or how to get out of this. Not only had one of my biggest fears come true-I was now going to go to jail for robbery.

I looked around to see if the store had any security cameras. I knew if this went to trial, I was going to need proof of my initial generosity if my story was going to stick. “I know this looks weird”, I mustered to say with a nervous laugh, “I gave you a tip and I’m not sure you were aware of it, so blah, blah, blah, blah blah”.  The more I talked, the more guilt I felt. I’m sure he could see it in my face. My tomato red face admitting guilt I didn’t even have.  My story made absolutely no sense. I mean, what kind of person is so obsessed with the fear of not being acknowledged that they would risk going to prison?

I finally said “it’s to go”. He looked at me like I was a side dish he didn’t order. “My soup…it’s to go” I said with total humility. He reluctantly turned and ladled my soup into the to-go hot cup and with an attitude handed it to me and said “have a nice day”. I’m pretty sure he meant “you are a cruel, cheap non-tipper”.  It was a nightmare and I could only see one way out. I pulled out the other four dollars, counted them in front of him, and deposited the 100 percent tip into his little jar of happiness. Once I got back to work, I threw my soup away, certain that he secretly spit into it and had to go somewhere else for lunch-forever!