Well, after yesterday all kinds of Mamie stories started coming up and I now feel compelled to write a bit more about her. I adored her-she was fascinating in every respect. The whitest teeth on earth, one in the front with a delicate gold rim around it. She had poreless skin of the finest mocha. Her hair was always done, most often in a kind of pageboy; no small feat-it was a horrible ordeal to watch her straighten her hair, but whenever I could I sat like a curious cat to see the process.
The best part about Mamie, though, was her laugh, and I will never adequately describe it in mere words. It was most often heard as the final punctuation at the end of one of her endless stories of how she had three or four boyfriends fighting over her all the time and how she would just laugh and laugh. Her head would flip back, and I could see all of her teeth (no cavities, before fluoride!) and the laugh that came out was from some other planet. If you were the Devil himself that laugh would force you to chime right on in with her, but she had no peer in the raucous department.
I don't know if it was the laugh or something else that should be on the market right this minute but men loved her. They flocked just like sheep whenever and wherever we went. When we went to Virginia Beach in the summer, Mamie went with us, and thanks to her the delivery man brought our groceries earlier than for anyone else. And he lingered. And lingered. And lingered. He'd finally leave and then she'd trot out that laugh and we'd fall all over ourselves laughing, but we didn't know why. She probably had all of the secrets in the universe compressed into that laugh and when it erupted there was just nothing like it.
Mamie told us great long stories of escapades with men who brought her gifts of all kinds and of great expense. Apparently she took great delight in throwing them back at these gentleman callers when she was finished toying with their nuclei accumben, though I think she did keep a few of the more valuable trinkets just in case the men had re-gifting on their minds. She did wear quite a lot of rings and also told us that she had some furs. One time when she was babysitting for us at night, a gentleman came by with a Pepsi-Cola for her. Guess how many nanoseconds it took for her to blow him off the porch.
Sorry, Badrose, I just right 'em down as they come to me...this too, will be continued...
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Boot Camp for Cocktail Waitressing and Life
I had no idea there were so many things to learn before life was to begin. Somehow, early on, I got the impression that from birth to say, about the time I was supposed to snag a rich husband that anything I did was in preparation for THE ONE and that nothing else was really all that important. Most of this was supposed to come to me by osmosis, as my parents really never told me very much about anything. Here are the two things my mother told me that seemed really important to her:
1) Don't ever do anything with a man that would cause you to feel uncomfortable around him at a cocktail party in 30 years
2) If you ever feel bad, just put on some lipstick and you'll immediately feel better
Well, that just about sums up the parenting. On speed dial. She was really a busy person. I had no idea what she did, though it always seemed like it was really important that she go somewhere. Now I understand that she just wanted to get away from 5 children and 4 dogs and I don't blame her. She also had 0 parenting skills most likely because she was raised by her older siblings. She was born in 1919 when both of her parents were in their 40's, and my grandmother was mortified to think that people would know she'd been having sex at at such an advanced age so she more or less pushed Mother off on the others to raise. At least that is what I think based on what she told me. My aunt and uncle used to take her to the cemetery where they'd all go to drink, and they'd tell her that they'd stick her in a grave if she told on them. I am SURE that didn't warp her.
Things I was unaware of for the longest time:
1) That the real world was not black and white before color movies came along. I actually thought this.
2) That people who lived through the Great Depression were actually depressed themselves-the stories I was told made it sound almost cool to have suffered through that.
3) That it is not true that men will be forced to rape you if they become aroused-I got this one courtesy of Mamie, a wonderful housekeeper who gave me tons of lovely misinformation like this.
4) That people lie on occasion. This one is still getting to me. I took just about everything anyone ever told me as the Gospel Truth, and that gullibility still rears its ugly head quite often.
I think that is enough list-making for today, but this is just a bit of the boot camp that lasted for 18 years. When my father died that changed everything.
To be continued...
1) Don't ever do anything with a man that would cause you to feel uncomfortable around him at a cocktail party in 30 years
2) If you ever feel bad, just put on some lipstick and you'll immediately feel better
Well, that just about sums up the parenting. On speed dial. She was really a busy person. I had no idea what she did, though it always seemed like it was really important that she go somewhere. Now I understand that she just wanted to get away from 5 children and 4 dogs and I don't blame her. She also had 0 parenting skills most likely because she was raised by her older siblings. She was born in 1919 when both of her parents were in their 40's, and my grandmother was mortified to think that people would know she'd been having sex at at such an advanced age so she more or less pushed Mother off on the others to raise. At least that is what I think based on what she told me. My aunt and uncle used to take her to the cemetery where they'd all go to drink, and they'd tell her that they'd stick her in a grave if she told on them. I am SURE that didn't warp her.
Things I was unaware of for the longest time:
1) That the real world was not black and white before color movies came along. I actually thought this.
2) That people who lived through the Great Depression were actually depressed themselves-the stories I was told made it sound almost cool to have suffered through that.
3) That it is not true that men will be forced to rape you if they become aroused-I got this one courtesy of Mamie, a wonderful housekeeper who gave me tons of lovely misinformation like this.
4) That people lie on occasion. This one is still getting to me. I took just about everything anyone ever told me as the Gospel Truth, and that gullibility still rears its ugly head quite often.
I think that is enough list-making for today, but this is just a bit of the boot camp that lasted for 18 years. When my father died that changed everything.
To be continued...
Sunday, October 14, 2007
My Life as a Cocktail Waitress Part Two
Actually this should have been part one, but anyway...
The last demographic figure I heard regarding baby boomers was that there are 77 million of us. That's about 1/4 of the total population of the United States. This WAS in large part a demographic of people who grew up in a time of stunning changes, not only in terms of what was happening in our tiny worlds but also in the larger world around us. We did not have the communications luxuries of the Internet, mobile phones, or even the fax machine(!). Somehow, though, our beliefs and concerns were heard, not only throughout our communities but also in political arenas, music, and activism on so many fronts. Now the problem we face on a daily basis is not how to communicate but through which method-there are even companies now whose sole purpose is to sort out for us which device is the best in terms of value, operational quality and on and on.
How is it then that with all of this communication there is such a dearth of passion for living and contributing to making the world a better place for all of us? Is it our SSRI's doing too good of a job at leveling us out? Are we so overloaded with the management of all of the "stuff" we've acquired through the past few decades that there is no time for anything else? Too much sex, drugs, and rock and roll at any earlier time? Did we long to please our parents too much and buy into an ideal that never really existed, the one that says 'me, my, mine'?
The post-World War II babies were fed a pablum of myths undercut by misery never expressed-at least in my home. It was all so very perfect on the surface, and if anything seemed unpleasant, well, when 5 o'clock on the dot rolled around we could watch our parents ease into the comfort of bourbon and water. For three hours each night. No exceptions. This was custom and routine. I thought every family did that and certainly no one ever told me any differently-I can even describe the highball glasses in detail if I like, as one of my Southern Belle training skills was to deftly whisk the empties away and back to the never-empty bar for replenishing (age 5).
This was the perfect beginning of cocktaillery (sounds rather sporting, like archery, doesn't it?); I learned so young and so well how to make things go smoothly so as to NOT make waves and cause the dreaded Dark Look of Death my mother could give-a look known to curdle milk, defrost ice cubes, and cause a general paralysis to anyone who got it from her. There were no words when the look came-just not necessary to have them, and, in fact, words may have lessened THE DARK LOOK'S impact.
It Was Just an Odd Day (postscript)
Well, sadly, this lovely lady did break several bones and now has to go through the misery of recovery again. This is not even a blog post-I just feel badly for her and hope she mends as quickly and as best she can.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
It Was Just an Odd Day
I was out showing houses to a lady whose parents wanted to come along. Everything was going along quite swimmingly, until the lady took an unexpected nosedive down two small steps and onto a quite recently injured arm and leg. After encouraging her to lie still, covering her with a blanket, running home to get ice, and then trying to help her daughter and father decide whether to even attempt to move her (and thank goodness the rescue squad was called) at one point I was left alone with this poor lady for a few minutes. Now, she is sitting there, or rather lying there, immobile, and in great pain, and I am Pollyanna, telling her these things happen, I am sorry it is her birthday, I had an injury last year, anything to keep her from going into shock and also thinking about her impending ordeal of going through various new medical procedures.
She suddenly turns her head to me and says "You know, before I got married I was training to be a nurse. And then I got married and that was that." It was like she'd had this huge secret for all of these years about her unspoken aspirations and at last had the moment to tell me, of all people., and she made it sound as if her life was over after she got married. Why me? Why do people tell me things like that out of the blue? I don't know, but it surely did seem important to her to tell me at that particular moment. I was glad to oblige her by listening, but it made me kind of sad. I sure am running into a lot of people lately with huge regrets, not for what they've done but for what they have not done or never even tried.
It has made me appreciate all of my mistakes, all 254,615 of them-each and every one of them has been part of this hectic, well-spent life. When it is all over for me, no one will be able to say that I didn't mind taking a risk even if short term failures were on the menu from time to time.
She suddenly turns her head to me and says "You know, before I got married I was training to be a nurse. And then I got married and that was that." It was like she'd had this huge secret for all of these years about her unspoken aspirations and at last had the moment to tell me, of all people., and she made it sound as if her life was over after she got married. Why me? Why do people tell me things like that out of the blue? I don't know, but it surely did seem important to her to tell me at that particular moment. I was glad to oblige her by listening, but it made me kind of sad. I sure am running into a lot of people lately with huge regrets, not for what they've done but for what they have not done or never even tried.
It has made me appreciate all of my mistakes, all 254,615 of them-each and every one of them has been part of this hectic, well-spent life. When it is all over for me, no one will be able to say that I didn't mind taking a risk even if short term failures were on the menu from time to time.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
My Life as a Cocktail Waitress
MY LIFE AS A COCKTAIL WAITRESS
I recommend life as a cocktail waitress as simply the best way to observe human nature. It just came to me as I watched the C-Span replay of the 28th Annual Emmy Awards and the lovely tribute to Ted Koppel, this year’s Lifetime Achievement Award Winner for 2007. As I watched the procession of tributes with the camera occasionally panning the crowd, it was impossible not to notice Dan Rather sitting there with barely contained rage, not for Ted or his award, I don’t think, but for what one can only guess is his most recently filed lawsuit against CBS, a feat that may well expose the seamy underbelly of our current authoritarian government’s assault on democracy and its eventual bleed into a news organization that was once the standard for all.
Holy, holy, up came the memories from the 1970’s-where in the world have they been all these years? Oh, right, I was consuming stuff, having babies, getting a career, avoiding dealing with the loss of my father, making a career out of sheer desperation, getting empowered (still in progress)-all that jazz.
So I am watching this and all of a sudden I go back to Athens, Georgia, where I attended The University of Georgia and where I began to grow. I didn’t necessarily WANT to be a cocktail waitress, but at the time it was the most expedient way for a female student to make money besides on her back or by marrying way too young (oops, same thing!). I had a lot of power as a waitress-I was in control of the room, with the exception of the bartender, Sully, who ranted gruff but was a Mallo Cup inside. It was such an unusual time.
As in any good bar we had a crowd of regulars, some of whom were the best people in the world and then there were-the others. Back to those guys later, but for now I’ll just say they were younger, ruder and drunker than any lifers. The classic bar fixture was Emmett, who came in at the same day every day, drank the same number of beers, tipped the same, smoked his brains out, looked at everyone and everything but never interacted with anyone in a meaningful way. He was a zero maintenance kind of guy and we were all quite fond of him, much like that comfy and shabby sofa that your mother gave you that can't be thrown away or it would hurt her feelings. There was a rumor that he may have had a wife, but I didn’t know for sure and dared not ask. He played a key part in my room scheme, serving as an anchor of relative tranquility compared to some of the others who came in and showed their worst behavior, and I think Emmett probably knew his place as the anchor in a sea of dysfunction.
“Happy Hour” in those days was a two-for-one special from five until seven in the evening. Regular price, two drinks in front of each customer, no short-shots allowed and because Sully poured a heavy two ounce shot what happened after 7:05 pm was always anyone’s guess. In today’s world of huge penalties for excessive consumption of alcohol it is amazing to look back and realize there was no penalty for drinking and driving, and in fact it was never even brought up that “perhaps so and so in the corner may need to be driven home.” It just never came up as a subject for discussion, and it is amazing that no one wrapped themselves around a telephone pole or died of alcohol poisoning or even more curiously, no one ever spoke of hangovers. After seven o’clock the tabs were cleared and usually the patrons thought, albeit only briefly, that they were not, in fact, drunk as dogs.
One of the nicest gentlemen I ever met was Reg Murphy, who at that time was Managing Editor of the Atlanta Constitution. For the longest time I had no idea who he was; all I knew was that he and the same small group came in regularly every two weeks after some at the University, had a polite couple of drinks and then left to go back to Atlanta, which at that time was accessed by back roads for those "in the know." He would always come in, tall and lean, his dark hair slicked back and with an extremely ironed white shirt and tie. A great tipper with nice manners; a fierce opponent of the war in Vietnam without long hair or blue jeans. He was just telling the story and telling it straight.
One night he didn’t show up as usual and of course I later found out he was in the middle of his two day sojourn in the hands of two bungling kidnappers. Mr. Murphy had been kidnapped by a moronic couple claiming to have an association with the Symbionese Liberation Army, that small group of self-proclaimed radical revolutionaries most famous for kidnapping Patty Hearst and making their eventual deaths in a blaze of police teargas and firearms one of the first times that the nation became transfixed by watching an event of that kind unfold in real time. As a brief aside, it is definitely worth it to take a Wiki look at the SLA story for the flavor of that time but even more interesting is Patty Hearst’s story; once you read about her it is easy to see that it has not been a stretch for her to become a John Waters darling, that master filmmaker of the bizarre who holds a John Wayne Gacy painting in his art collection.
It was no surprise that Reg negotiated his own release in exchange for $700,000 and got his own best story ever with neither the time nor need for a rewrite. A couple of weeks later he showed up and his routine began again as if nothing had ever happened. He had not contracted the Stockholm Syndrome; he was moving forward with only a brief respite here and there in the warm fuzzy cotton ball I called work.
After moving to Los Angeles in 1976 I wrote a letter to Reg Murphy to tell him how much I had appreciated him as a customer. He had moved by then to become editor of the San Francisco Examiner. Lo and behold, a few days later a letter arrived back; yes, he remembered me, appreciated my contacting him, wished me well in my travels and generally made me feel like I was just as important as he. The name of the restaurant was The Prime Time, and that was how we all felt when he popped in. What a nice guy.
TO BE CONTINUED
I recommend life as a cocktail waitress as simply the best way to observe human nature. It just came to me as I watched the C-Span replay of the 28th Annual Emmy Awards and the lovely tribute to Ted Koppel, this year’s Lifetime Achievement Award Winner for 2007. As I watched the procession of tributes with the camera occasionally panning the crowd, it was impossible not to notice Dan Rather sitting there with barely contained rage, not for Ted or his award, I don’t think, but for what one can only guess is his most recently filed lawsuit against CBS, a feat that may well expose the seamy underbelly of our current authoritarian government’s assault on democracy and its eventual bleed into a news organization that was once the standard for all.
Holy, holy, up came the memories from the 1970’s-where in the world have they been all these years? Oh, right, I was consuming stuff, having babies, getting a career, avoiding dealing with the loss of my father, making a career out of sheer desperation, getting empowered (still in progress)-all that jazz.
So I am watching this and all of a sudden I go back to Athens, Georgia, where I attended The University of Georgia and where I began to grow. I didn’t necessarily WANT to be a cocktail waitress, but at the time it was the most expedient way for a female student to make money besides on her back or by marrying way too young (oops, same thing!). I had a lot of power as a waitress-I was in control of the room, with the exception of the bartender, Sully, who ranted gruff but was a Mallo Cup inside. It was such an unusual time.
As in any good bar we had a crowd of regulars, some of whom were the best people in the world and then there were-the others. Back to those guys later, but for now I’ll just say they were younger, ruder and drunker than any lifers. The classic bar fixture was Emmett, who came in at the same day every day, drank the same number of beers, tipped the same, smoked his brains out, looked at everyone and everything but never interacted with anyone in a meaningful way. He was a zero maintenance kind of guy and we were all quite fond of him, much like that comfy and shabby sofa that your mother gave you that can't be thrown away or it would hurt her feelings. There was a rumor that he may have had a wife, but I didn’t know for sure and dared not ask. He played a key part in my room scheme, serving as an anchor of relative tranquility compared to some of the others who came in and showed their worst behavior, and I think Emmett probably knew his place as the anchor in a sea of dysfunction.
“Happy Hour” in those days was a two-for-one special from five until seven in the evening. Regular price, two drinks in front of each customer, no short-shots allowed and because Sully poured a heavy two ounce shot what happened after 7:05 pm was always anyone’s guess. In today’s world of huge penalties for excessive consumption of alcohol it is amazing to look back and realize there was no penalty for drinking and driving, and in fact it was never even brought up that “perhaps so and so in the corner may need to be driven home.” It just never came up as a subject for discussion, and it is amazing that no one wrapped themselves around a telephone pole or died of alcohol poisoning or even more curiously, no one ever spoke of hangovers. After seven o’clock the tabs were cleared and usually the patrons thought, albeit only briefly, that they were not, in fact, drunk as dogs.
One of the nicest gentlemen I ever met was Reg Murphy, who at that time was Managing Editor of the Atlanta Constitution. For the longest time I had no idea who he was; all I knew was that he and the same small group came in regularly every two weeks after some at the University, had a polite couple of drinks and then left to go back to Atlanta, which at that time was accessed by back roads for those "in the know." He would always come in, tall and lean, his dark hair slicked back and with an extremely ironed white shirt and tie. A great tipper with nice manners; a fierce opponent of the war in Vietnam without long hair or blue jeans. He was just telling the story and telling it straight.
One night he didn’t show up as usual and of course I later found out he was in the middle of his two day sojourn in the hands of two bungling kidnappers. Mr. Murphy had been kidnapped by a moronic couple claiming to have an association with the Symbionese Liberation Army, that small group of self-proclaimed radical revolutionaries most famous for kidnapping Patty Hearst and making their eventual deaths in a blaze of police teargas and firearms one of the first times that the nation became transfixed by watching an event of that kind unfold in real time. As a brief aside, it is definitely worth it to take a Wiki look at the SLA story for the flavor of that time but even more interesting is Patty Hearst’s story; once you read about her it is easy to see that it has not been a stretch for her to become a John Waters darling, that master filmmaker of the bizarre who holds a John Wayne Gacy painting in his art collection.
It was no surprise that Reg negotiated his own release in exchange for $700,000 and got his own best story ever with neither the time nor need for a rewrite. A couple of weeks later he showed up and his routine began again as if nothing had ever happened. He had not contracted the Stockholm Syndrome; he was moving forward with only a brief respite here and there in the warm fuzzy cotton ball I called work.
After moving to Los Angeles in 1976 I wrote a letter to Reg Murphy to tell him how much I had appreciated him as a customer. He had moved by then to become editor of the San Francisco Examiner. Lo and behold, a few days later a letter arrived back; yes, he remembered me, appreciated my contacting him, wished me well in my travels and generally made me feel like I was just as important as he. The name of the restaurant was The Prime Time, and that was how we all felt when he popped in. What a nice guy.
TO BE CONTINUED
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