Sunday, December 4, 2005

christmiscellany. I've got to get home (Baby, you'll freeze out there...) Say, lend me a comb (It's up to your knees out there...) You've really been grand (I thrill when you touch my hand...) Oh, but don't you see (How can you do this thing to me...) There's bound to be talk tomorrow (Well, think of my lifelong sorrow...) At least there will be plenty implied (If you caught pneumonia and died...) I really can't stay (Get over that hold out...) Oh, but Baby, it's cold outside... I have a version of this song -- Baby, It's Cold Outside -- by Ray Charles and Betty Carter, and it's an absolute hoot. Did I just say that something was a hoot? Oy. I dearly love the idea of being persuaded to stay in front of a warm fire, in loving arms, smooching the night away. But I have no snow. Well, I do, but it's not knee-deep. I have no crackling kindling behind a wrought iron grate. I do have a scented candle. And no arms are in the immediate vicinity waiting to lure me back into a cozy, mistletoe-d embrace. For now. So instead, I shall celebrate a couple other thoughts of the season until some Boy Scout (well, former, grown-up Boy Scout, please) builds me a fire. The deepest kind of lemon fresh. My roommate is an elementary school teacher -- sixth grade, to be exact. She's very good at all of it, all that teachery stuff -- even when her students are trying to test her beyond what any educator should be forced to bear. Tomorrow night, she will be hall-monitoring at her school's Christmas concert -- being that poor, poor teacher who gets to stand in the hallway with dozens of nervous, excited, wiggly kids and keep them quiet until they are required to be on stage. I can remember being one of those munchkins, trying so hard not to act up, but becoming joyfully, ridiculously overwhelmed by the delight of being out at night, in my best dress, waiting to perform for my mom and dad. I wasn't good at being quiet at the best of times. Asking me to be quiet then was like asking someone to sit still on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Like asking a two year-old to meditate. But fortunately, all my teachers grasped just how thrilling the whole experience was for our little joy-jostled bodies and minds -- they went easy on us. And sometimes they gave us candy, too. My parents were not so thankful for this indulgence when they went to peel me off my ceiling and put me to bed. When I got older and I was performing with a jazz choir in high school, we used to spend those hallway moments applying odd voice-enhancing remedies to our rehearsal-raw throats. Because, y'know, we were professionals, now. Spoonfuls of oil? Check. Hot water and honey? Check. Throat lozenges? Check. Apple cider vinegar? Check. Several lemon wedges, sucked to the pith? Check. That last one was my drug of choice. It would clear up some of my naturally-occuring phlegm for me, but I'd always be left with acid-bleached lips and more rawness than I'd previously been experiencing. I don't know why I kept doing it, other than the fact that I really liked lemons, and eating them straight-up in front of people always had great shock value. Before one notable concert -- in which I was scheduled to sing a solo line in Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree -- I actually ended up swallowing a whole lemon rind accidentally as I backcombed my hair in the ladies' room. This caused some panic amongst my friends, who circled around me flapping their arms like pigeons and trying to remember how to do the Heimlich. But the coughing stopped eventually, and I was left rosy-cheeked, red-eyed, and citrus-scented, sprawled on the floor in my jade polyester choir blouse. The show went on. Every concert thereafter, my wedges were confiscated. I moved on to shots of Tabasco. Those twinkling, red-green, evening-dark, spotlight-bright concert nights still stand out in my mind as some of the most lovely moments of my school career. We soaked up the applause and the beaming smiles on our teachers' and parents' faces, quite certain for a single moment in time that we'd stolen the show. And we did. Sometimes I really miss the show. Christmas Eve in Espresso Hell I worked two Christmas Eves during my time at Starbucks. We always closed by 6:30 on those nights (usually, we stayed open until 11:30 pm), which made us really unpopular with: People who forgot until the last moment to buy beans for their Christmas parties. People who didn't celebrate Christmas, but sure as hell celebrate coffee. Eggnog latte addicts. I, for one, cannot handle an Eggnog latte. I think they smell like baby vomit. You try sticking a steam wand into baby vomit over and over and over and see how noggy you feel at the end of an 8-hour shift. My clever co-workers thus took to calling me Megnog during the holiday season, which was better than Nutmeg, but not quite as good as Hot Stuff. In the days nearing the 25th, I would sell many, many espresso machines, wrap a plethora of gifts, and become my store's 'Red Apron' girl -- in other words, I would wander around in a nice dress and a red apron, handing out samples and generally feeling like a horribly bastardized form of geisha. Sigh. The last shift I ever worked -- EVER -- at a Starbucks was on Christmas Eve, in a store where I'd been filling in for an absent employee. My co-baristas that night were Shawn and Aaron: two very cute, very eligible bachelors in the prime of their twenties. We were having a wonderful time comping drinks left, right, and centre, sampling the baking out to customers, and flirting up a storm. When 6:30 hit, we locked the doors and rushed around cleaning up at breakneck speed; we all had better places to be, luckily. I was restocking beans in the back with Aaron (and no, that's not a euphemism) when I heard banging on the door, followed by Shawn's voice and another male voice discussing something at an elevated volume. We both hurried out to check on him, since none of us was permitted to unlock the doors except to leave after closing, and he was all alone out there. But it turns out he wasn't alone anymore; a very, very red-faced man, sheepish wife and kids in tow, was demanding that we serve him and his family coffee and hot chocolate. It wasn't possible. The machines were off and emptied, the bar was shut down, we were out of eggnog, gingerbread syrup, mocha... you name it. We'd had a busy day. But he wasn't taking no for an answer and somehow, Shawn had been hoodwinked into letting him in. I don't remember quite what we concocted to satisfy him. Mostly because it didn't satisfy him. Somehow all his Christmas joy had been wrapped up in our ability to provide him with the hot beverage of his choice, and we failed to make that dream come true. He stormed out with his kin and left half-empty cups of somethingorother spilled across one of the tables -- a table we'd allowed him to sit in stony silence while we closed up the store. I honestly don't know what the backstory must have been there. Once we'd gotten a large dose of embarassed vibes from his kids, we'd done our best to try and given them anything good we could. It wasn't their fault their father was stressing out at Starbucks. I even pretended to keep slipping on ice behind the counter to make the kids laugh. Okay, so I wasn't pretending. The mess they left kept us there for another fifteen minutes -- fifteen minutes during which Shawn and Aaron swore like sailors, vowed to quit their jobs, and sang alternate versions of Christmas carols involving serious disdain towards our most recent customer: (to the tune of Jingle Bells) Christmas Eve, Christmas Eve Man, this shift is lame And the a**hole customer Is the one to bla-ame! Christmas Eve, Christmas Eve Why can't we go home? Because that idiot spilled his drink And now our night is blown! I worked with poets. When we finally went to leave, we stood outside in the cold for a second, exchanging jokes and breathing the (non-coffee-scented) night air in as deeply as we possibly could. They both said their goodbyes, since I wouldn't be back for another shift. Then Aaron left and Shawn and I stood there alone. Did I mention he was cute? He was cute. "So this is the end, eh, girl?" "Yeah. I'm breakin' out of this joint." "You gonna miss it?" "I'm not thinking I really will." "Yeah -- I guess tonight was enough to convince you of that, hey?" "It was the perfect last shift." "Heh... I guess so. Hey, Meg?" "Yeah?" "You always looked cute in that red apron." With that, he leaned over, kissed me on the forehead, and gave me a hug. I almost laughed out loud, as I tend to when things are delightfully, deliciously nice. We stood in silence until my parents arrived to get me. Then he walked off into the night, having giving me a nice little present in seven words or less. So, you click the link yet? Clicking is fun. Yesterday's post should tell you all you need to know. If you click my PayPal donation link to your left, all the money given will be forwarded to one of the most deserving, hard-working, inspirational people in the blogosphere. And I don't mean me. Really. If I meant me, I would describe said person as freakin' insane. Trust me on this one. It's worth it to give up a latte or two or fifty to help her out. She makes me proud to be writing in this little corner of the web. Love to all -- really. 11:16:06 PM    well, yes, but...  [] every little bit. So. I know a blogger. Well, I know tons of bloggers, but I'm speaking of this one in particular. She's brilliant, really. I love every darn thing she writes, partly because she writes so beautifully, and partly because she writes about things that resonate in my heart. And she is an inspiration to me as far as all this goes. Whenever I get discouraged about the process of submitting my work to the ether, I read a little of what she has to say, and I am convinced that the effort is wholeheartedly worthwhile. So. I'm aware that she is facing a number of challenges at this point, some of which could be alleviated by a dose of financial help. The reality is, she works her butt off at everything she does, but sometimes working hard isn't enough to ward off bumps in the road (as anyone who has ever worked hard knows...). She keeps slogging away brilliantly towards her laudable and attainable goals, but I know it has to become difficult at times to keep slogging, especially when frustrations domino all over her world. So. I'm asking my readers to help support her a little. I'm not even going to tell you who it is, because that's not really important. What IS important is that her work means a lot to me -- as does she -- and I'd love to see her burden eased just a little. And if you appreciate the journey I'm on (those of you that keep coming back), you have to know that she has been a really positive influence on me and an encouragement to me. If you click on the PayPal link to your left, all donations will be forwarded directly to her. She has not asked for any help, but I defy her to reject it when I send it along -- nobody says no to me! Ha! Every little snowflake contributes to building a drift. Please be as generous as you can. Get my drift? Wahahaha! Thanks, everyone. 11:43:26 AM    well, yes, but...  []

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