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Dining Outiquette

Long before I was a Mommy – and also while I was becoming and being a Mommy – I worked as a waitress at popular tourist destinations on the World-Famous Cabot Trail. Over the nine years I have worked in customer service and the food and beverage industry, I have seen everything from adults who don’t like their peas to touch their carrots and kids who throw their peas and carrots. It’s an occupation that can be positively grating on your nerves and sanity, but I mostly enjoyed it and know many people for whom it is a lifelong career. While I always really loved the opportunity to interact with people, I used to have a difficult time connecting with kids at the table and since becoming a Mom (and after eating almost every meal in a hotel for a whole week), I’ve learned that a lot of servers are super uncomfortable with kids so I’d like to present you with a list of Do’s and Don’ts when eating out with your kids.

1.       Do at least try to clean up their mess. I know you’re out to eat and the server is getting paid, but that server also has other tables, other meals and other people who need his or her attention. No, you don’t have to wipe the table, but at least try to pick up some of the stuff your kid threw all over the floor. They're cursing you as you leave.

2.       If your child is hungry or impatient (as if there was ever a kid who could wait for food in a restaurant), DO tell the server up front that you’d like your child’s meal immediately. While some servers (read: experienced ones or parents themselves) do this as a precaution, it is so easily overlooked and most kitchens don’t automatically get a child’s food ready right away. Be proactive. Bonus if you bring a snack to keep ‘em happy.

3.       Don’t force the awkward “Suzie, say hello to the nice lady” bit between the kid and the server. It’s not OK and it’s really, really uncomfortable. If your child is shy or doesn’t feel like being social, let them be quiet and just order the damn meal. Your waitress probably has other things to do, and you should be drinking some wine by now.

4.       Do ask the server about alternatives for kids’ meals: the last restaurant I worked in didn’t even have a children’s menu – but we did half orders of almost everything. My son would rather eat a salad than eat fries, so I often ask if it would be possible for him to have a half order of salad. Sometimes I get funny looks and the worst they can say is no! Trust me – they’d rather be asked than have you be complaining about the “limited options” or leaving unhappy.

5.       Do keep your kid in their seat, or get out. This might seem harsh, but there are two outcomes to your child getting “loose”, and neither is pretty. One outcome involves the server tripping over them and dropping food – the table waiting for that food is going to be pissed, and the server is going to be irate and unable to say anything. The second is that your child could get really badly hurt – hot tea and coffee is a real danger, folks. When I was dining room manager, I had no problem asking guests to please not have their children running around. I’ve also seen other tables get up and leave, and that is totally unacceptable.

6.       Don’t over complicate the order, especially in a busy dining room. Allergies are one thing, but your picky eater is going to starve to death if you don’t try to curb that now. If you know your kid won’t eat ¾ of the ingredients in a meal you should choose something else rather than asking the server to have the kitchen pick things out or swap. Save that for homecooked meals.

7.       Do try to give the server the benefit of the doubt: he or she may be totally uncomfortable with kids, and while the dining room might not look busy that server has a ton of other work to be done. BUT, if the service is bad, ask for a manager.

In general - just a few things you might want to keep in mind for eating out:

1. DO NOT snap your fingers at your server. Raising your hand or saying a simple (and polite) "excuse me" is more than enough. I hated the finger snap, and chances are your server does too. We are not dogs. We are not your maid.

2. If your server asks if you'd like anything else... that would be the best time to tell her. Don't ask her for ketchup, only to ask for water once that arrives, and then for an extra napkin when she comes back again. It is tireseome and no one wants to make eleven trips to the same table!

3. Don't treat your server like an idiot. I'm a (fairly) smart individual, and nothing irked me more than when people talked to me like a total dork. Don't assume your server is just working for the summer, or while he or she studies either: there are a lot of people who choose to make a career out of the service industry, and they do damn well for themselves.

4. Last, but definitely not least, tip on service not on food. I have no control over how quickly food comes out of the kitchen or whether or not the chef got your steak just right. If I did, I wouldn't have been taking your order - I would have been cooking it. If you're unhappy with your meal, tell the server. He or she can probably comp it and will more than likely try to make it up to you. Don't cut the tip in half because the food was awesome.

Beneath the Big Top

My life is a Circus.

The only things missing are the elephant, abundance of candy and of course, a tent. I haven’t quite decided if I’m the clown or a part of the freak-show. Probably the freak-show, ‘cause clowns are just creepy even if the name Bozo does apply to me from time to time.

I’d like to think myself to be fairly imaginative and I’ve been known to fabricate a story to pacify the parents and, OK, sometimes the public, but there is no way that I could possibly make up the shit-storm that has been my life for the past month (or year, if we’re being real here). This is the stuff of bad soap operas and made-for-TV film – bad plot, great shoes. I’m sitting on the cold, hardwood floor of my new apartment typing this because I have no furniture – a tidbit you would know if you follow me on Twitter (@finnsnbranches). If you don’t, shame on you. But, I digress… No furniture.

Sadly, it doesn’t end there: I am also without all 32 pieces of my Corelle Hearthstone dishes, 12 wine glasses, 16 drinking glasses, 16 piece Corningware set, towels, toiletries, personal items, antique dishes, Paderno pot sets, dressers, tables, dining room set and a whole slew of other things I’m too angry and too tired to type. Remember when I said I had a bad feeling about coming back to school? It turns out the bad feeling had nothing to do with school – it was just that [enter descriptive profanity here] apartment building. *Sigh*

My LIFE was in that unit. Without the contents of the apartment – the contents I went to get on Monday evening only to find them missing – I can’t even make myself a cup of tea, because I don’t actually have a cup to drink from. I couldn’t make my son the egg he wanted for breakfast because I don’t have a frying pan. (Interjection: my bony ass hurts from sitting on the hardwood floor.) Needless to say, the beginning of my first week in regular classes was not off to a good start. I spent Monday night with the police officer, and most of Tuesday yawning, trying to joke about it, meeting my instructor and classmates and then on the phone with everyone from the head of the rental company to lawyers, the police and residential tenancies reps.

 Ya just can’t make this stuff up, kids.

If you’ve never experienced a “robbery”, you’re very lucky and I pray you never do. It’s the stuff that we read about in the news, but doesn’t actually happen to people like us, right? WRONG. It does happen, and it leaves you with an empty feeling, and it’s not just your belongings that you are robbed of in that moment. No, it’s more than that. You are robbed of your sense of security and your ability to trust. That and your sanity (which can be restored through the consumption of a good wine and lots of dry humour). It’s hard to believe that these things can really happen – and while the rental company has tried to twist it into a “miscommunication”, the fact is that my apartment was entered into and the contents removed with no legal basis, no permission and without any logical reason. Oh, did I mention that they were kind enough to lock the door this time? You might remember my concern at having found the door left unlocked two weeks ago. Ironic, no? They were also kind enough to turn every bloody light on and then leave them on. Thanks for wasting power and driving up my energy bill, assholes. (End rant)

While it’s been an awful experience, filled with sadness and a lot of anger, I know I’m going to come through stronger on the other end. It’s pretty incredible, and no amount of compensation is going to replace my trust, sense of security or the personal items and antique bowls that belonged to my Great Aunt. Those things are gone forever. It’s like being cheated on, only with less sex and absolutely no furniture. For the first time in my life, I was a complete bitch to the customer service reps and while I feel bad for taking my anger out on the people who weren’t responsible, I’m not a bit sorry for standing up for myself. At the end of the day, I’m pretty sorry that I didn’t follow my gut and remove my things sooner.

But I’m totally not sorry about laying eyes on that officer. Eye candy almost makes it easier to take.

Implied

...To the Moon & Back

My son and I regularly ask eachother "Do you love me?", and the answer is always the same.

"Yes, I do love you."

I tell him over and over that I love him, and that I always will. I tell him how special he is and how lucky I am to be his Mom. I shower him with hugs and kisses, playful tickles and the occasional scolding. My heart bursts with love and pride every time I look at him. Even now, as I type this, he has kissed both of my arms and my back through the chair. When I thanked him for the kisses, he looked at me with those beautiful blue eyes and said "Thank-you for love, Mommy".

It just doesn't get any better than that.

I have vowed to always tell F how much I love him - and I hope he will always feel secure saying "I love you, Mom". If he doesn't say it, will he still love me? Of course, but there's something dangerous about the implied love. My parents love me very much - I know this because they have shown me what unconditional love is for the last twenty-four years, but it's not something we say very often. Infact, when I think about the times my parents have looked at me and said "I love you", I really have to dig deep. It was after a blow-out fight when I was a pre-teen, at graduation, when I left for University, when I was devastated after my break-up last winter. The love has always been there - we just don't say it, and I'm as guilty as they are.

I'm sure they said it all the time when I was a little girl, and I am equally certain that I said it to them all the time as a girl. Why did we stop? Maybe it wasn't cool, or maybe I was embarassed and asked them - I'm not sure. What I do know is that I was positively shocked when I first heard J tell his mom and dad he loved them, and then he kissed them. That doesn't happen at my house - and it hurt a little bit.

It's not just "I love you's" that we skip here. It's the "I'm proud of you" or the "I think you're specials" that we've left unspoken. I can't comprehend a day where I stop telling F those things, because he will always be special and I will always be proud of him. He'll make me furious and I'm sure he'll embarass the Hell out of me more than once, but that's OK. In fact, he's already done both. I believe that's called "payback" (or so my Dad tells me).

I look foward to those big blue eyes looking at me tomorrow, next week and ten years down the road and asking "Do you love me?". We're both going to change a lot, but our answers never will.

Leaping

"Are you seeing anyone yet?"

I hate this question with the burning heat of a thousand suns.

While I fight back the urge to ask people if they've broken up with their jackass SO's or tell them I'm more interested in a relationship with my right hand, I usually smile politely and answer a simple "No,". I know that most of the people who ask me about my dating life mean well, but it's really none of their business. How do you politely say that? How do you kindly tell your grandmother's friend that she's overstepped the boundaries?

The facts are this: I'm an almost-25-year-old single Mom to a beautiful little boy. I'm also enrolled in an advanced diploma program in Public Relations. I've just completely uprooted my life in an effort to make it better after separating from my husband - six months after we were married. It's been almost ten months since we split up and I am not seeing anyone, nor am I in any rush to. Firstly, can we go back to the beginning? I'm twenty-four years old. I have been pregnant or a parent for almost all of my twenties. I've been in a committed, long-term relationship for all of my twenties until now. Can't I just figure myself out - is that so much to ask?

Some people ask out of concern for my son - "he needs a father, dear". Had my wonderful parents not raised me so well, I would turn around and tell these people (in no uncertain terms) where they can stick that idea. Am I sad that F doesn't have his dad in his life? Yes, I am. It hurts more that my son doesn't have his father around than the breakup ever could have. A big part of the reason J and I were still together was my own narrow-minded idea that he "needed his Dad".  The truth is that F has a lot of wonderful male role-models, like my Dad and my many uncles, cousins and my brother. I always point that out. To me, that's like saying that a same-sex couple can't raise a happy, well-adjusted child or that single-parent households are no more than a breeding ground for would-be criminals. J sends me the odd text saying how much he misses F, but the reality is that he has made no effort to be in his life.

When the timing is right, F and I will be ready to welcome someone into our lives: someone who is going to love us unconditionally, support us emotionally and be involved in our lives. I'm not going to rush it or jump in - it's not just my heart on the line. F has suffered enough loss in his life, he doesn't need someone else to let him down. I remain to believe that his dad can still change, but only J can do that. Only J can decide that he wants to be here for our son. I tried to make that decision for him, and it blew up in my face. I was barely twenty when J and I began dating, and I was 23 walking down the aisle. The last five years of my life have been a mix of joy and despair, but I wouldn't change them. They were spent concentrating on J, and then on our child. It's time for me to spend a little time on me.

I've learned that there are times to leap and times to stay still in life. I am taking a GIANT leap of faith in going back to school - I've put everything on the line. Less than week after school started, the sale of the home F and I have lived in is due to close and my life is up in the air. It's scary knowing that I might not land in my feet, but it's the good scary - like when you're about to go on a first date. The idea of dating someone new is terrifying - like when you're being chased by Zombies. Until I have the good-scary feeling about someone, I'll be rocking it solo.

And who knows: maybe that special person will be waiting to catch me.

XO

Hanging On

How do you let go?

I struggle with letting things go. I always have, and I probably always will. I struggle with letting go of hair or body products I don't use, clothes that don't fit and emotions and memories that bring me down. In the end, it leaves me with clutter and baggage.

 I try my best to let things go, from the clothes that no longer fit to the emotions that are eating me alive. I try to push forward and press on but it's hard sometimes. Sometimes, I just give in. Give up. I go back to my habit of holding on, clinging to the things that weigh me down and suck the light out of my life. I let these painful memories and aching emotions drain the happiness from my new life, and it's slowly going to drain my spark from me.

When the realtor called to say there was an offer on my house - the house my parents inherited and helped me fix up - I felt an odd mixture of joy and fear. When my parents came back from their meeting and said they'd made their counter-offer, I selfishly hoped the other person would turn it down. He didn't. Within minutes, the phone was ringing with the good news. I stood in the kitchen shocked, a wave of cold fear washing over me. It's really good that it's selling. It means my parents will be able to do the things they've wanted to do. It means I won't need to take out the second instalment of my loan, and that my baby brother will have his car on the road soon. It means my parents no longer have the burden of a second home, but it also means that someone else is going to live in the home that I worked so hard to create. They will sit in the living room I painted, cook on the stove I cooked on and their child will sleep in F's bedroom and it hurts.

I sit here staring through watery eyes as I imagine this young family living out my dream in my home and it's all I can do to not cry out. I sit here, my face awash with silent tears knowing that I need to just let it go, that I need to start over. I shouldn't be sad, but I am. I should be leaping for joy but I'm not. I'm hanging on to something that isn't even there any more.

 

I'm hanging on to the memory of a dream I didn't get to hold.