The social experiment of the half-eaten bagel

The other day I was tending bar.  I had switched shifts with a beautiful, smart, funny, friend of mine, so I was working her usual shift during the day.  Certain things, well...a lot of things bother me about people when I bartend.  This is why I tend to limit my bartending to one shift a week, give or take.  I am poor and less grumpy because of it.

Still, I would like to talk about something that bothers me every single time I work during the day.
(This post has a positive happy thoughtful ending, so please continue reading.)
When you work a daytime shift at a bar, you have tasks that are unlike the nighttime tasks.  For instance, you may have to work on changing the beer menus or cut fruit.  These things do not bother me; actually, I find them to be a sort-of fun time taker.

This is what drives me absolutely crazy: if I am doing one of these little chores and the bar is empty, a customer will come into the bar and sit directly in front of my task even though every single stinking seat is open but the one directly in front of my work. See, right there, right where they decide to sit, is a chalk board that takes up double the width of the bar preventing comfortable seating, or it's a cutting board that is full of lemons, limes, juices, and knives, and thus, leaves no room for a customer's drink.  I do not know why this happens.  It makes me want to eat my own arm and swallow my fist.  It makes me freaking insane, and it happens every single time.

The other day that I was working happened to be bagel day. We give away free bagels, and isn't that nice? Well, I decided to conduct an experiment of sorts.

Is it me that draws them to the unavailable area?  Or is it the unavailable area itself?:

My boss came in and ate half a bagel.  He left the other half on the bar.  I knew he was done with it, but I decided not to throw it away.  Understand, I had completed all of my side work, and this was something different.  The half-eaten bagel did not require my presence.  A half-eaten bagel can be anyone's.  It is simply an object on the bar that is clearly not the property of any new customer who has just entered.

I watched as twenty, (20!) people walked in through out the afternoon to a relatively empty bar and sit directly in front of the bagel.  In the early hours, daytime shifts are usually a one or two beer stay for most customers.  In the course of 2 hours, twenty people can easily come in, drink, socialize, leave and only see about 2 other people at the bar...so the bar is pretty empty even though twenty people have come and gone.

I would move the bagel to a different seat when someone new entered the room.  They would survey the bar and choose the seat with the half-eaten bagel in front.  Then, I moved it to a random location.  The next person comes in, says hello, and again, sits at the bagel.  A HALF EATEN BAGEL?  Don't you feel a little insane just knowing this happens?

ARGH!!!!!

So this is the kind of thing that bothers me.  I get angry just thinking about it.  I also get angry walking behind people who weave back and forth, people who ask me personal questions that do not even know my name, and people who listen to their headphones at full volume on the subway.  This is only naming a few things that people do day to day that make me sign audibly and role my eyes.  Usually I say "jesus" or "are you kidding me?" under my breath.  It's all very passive aggressive-like.

Then something tragic happens.  People die.  Children are shot.  The Earth speeds-up, slows-down, screeches to a halt, yet continues to rotate.  Christmas is cancelled. Peace has never been so far out of reach, and war is birthed out of our anger and sadness.  We are fighting for new laws, fighting for answers, fighting for sleep at night.

Someone comes up with a nice idea: twenty-six acts of kindness for the twenty-six killed.

I want to be a part of that. I want to help the healing and bring back the holiday spirit of giving and peace. I want to fuck this Apocalypse til she knows the meaning of the word "love."

Yesterday I stood up and gave my seat on the subway to an old woman.  I started to congratulate myself and check a random act off my list. But than I realized that this is not a random act. This is a regular act. This is how we all should live.  Giving your seat to someone on the subway should not be a kind act, it should be a regular act.

Than I picked up a wallet for someone who had dropped it.  Again, this is not a kind act.  This is an everyday act.  

I have no money to give.  I have little time to spare.  I can do these simple things for people, but these are things that are already done.  Anyone should be so inclined to help someone in need in little ways.  There are not twenty-six times to do this.  This should happen every single day.  It must.

So I have decided to become more understanding.  I will try to end the huffing and puffing and blow your house down.  I will realize that maybe the person swerving in front of me is reading a text that is immediately taking her focus away from the world around her.  Maybe the person asking personal questions finds me interesting and is looking for a way to form an actual conversation where names are exchanged. Maybe the person listening to their headphones at full volume has panic issues, like I have.  Maybe my need to read a book does not work for them.  Maybe they need to plug in and close their eyes. Maybe I have been so misunderstanding.

And at times, misunderstood myself.

Right now, this change in thinking is what I can offer.  

I am still looking for an answers.

Like: why are people drawn to a half-eaten bagel?

cold dark honesty, little whites, and the grey area inbetween

Over the years and tough lessons, I have become an honest person.  When I was a child, including my teenage years, I was concerned with how I was perceived to a fault.  Therefore, I lied about who I was in order to make a better impression.  This backfired of course, and I am smart enough to learn from my mistakes.  I guess this makes me an adult in some regard.

I have a friend who, during a moral hangover, told me that all I can do is "be the best Liz I can be." (Thank you, Thor, I think of that often. It is a theme.)

Maybe I have also become less judgmental.  I guess this has to do with a lack of jealousy and being more comfortable in my own skin.  People judge for different reasons. I cannot grasp it.

Here is the thing: I try to save people's feelings.  Not jerk faced strangers who cut in front of me in line.  Screw them.  I live in New York City.  They get a firm talking too.  I am coldly honest to those I despise.

There are people out there who I care about just a little bit.  These are the people whose numbers are not in my phone, who may possibly know me on Facebook, who will probably never read this excuse for a blog, and that is perfectly okay.  I may chose to tell little whites to these people.  It protects their feelings and hurts no one.

Fictional example: I am in a bar one night, and a person I care about a little bit comes in emotional and drunk.  They fall down.  Witnesses laugh.  The drunk emotional person is unhurt physically, they pull themselves together, they go home.  The drunk person has had a negative experience, everyone else is unscathed.

The next time I see them they are apologetic and embarrassed.  They ask questions.  It took courage for them to step back into the bar, and they hope that they are able to come back without being labeled "The person who fell down while crying."

I tell them that it wasn't a big deal (truth).  I tell them that no one even remembers that happening (little white.)

I remember, and my friend at the end of the bar brought it up the other day.

The reason for the little white is to protect.  The person I care about a little bit has been beating themselves up.  The embarrassment is so thick I can see it like a mask on their face.  It is kindness to tell this little white.  It begins the healing process.

The people I care about a lot get the honesty.  But unlike the jerk strangers, it does not have to be cold and dark because they are good people.  They certainly see me and my flaws, but they know I am just trying to be the best Liz I can be.  We have discussions.  We talk about grey areas and we clear up the mucky stuff.

I am surprised when people I care about a lot do not see the difference.  I am surprised when they are comfortable in the muck. 
I am touched and grateful when they know how hard I am trying to live my life honestly and kindly.

Judgement between friends can be hurtful.
Next time this happens, I want the judgmental friends to think about how it affects them personally.  If it does not, they should reevaluate.

Also, friends, try to remember that I am trying to be the best Liz I can be.  I struggle with the grey areas everyday, but usually I would choose to take the same path if I were to do it again.  And often times, it was uncomfortable for me the first time. It would be nice to never even touch the muck.

Yet, this path was protective, little and white to some, but purely honest to the ones that matter.
And the ones that matter should understand.
Thank you to those who do.

my commute to work

Doors Close.
Man taps his foot next to me.
Still have not paid my bills, and I don't want this to be a "teaching moment."
He taps along to a hidden song.  His world alone.
To my left a busy person counts receipts, organizing.
I wonder who sees my blue toenails.
Doors open.
Slight change.
Doors close.
An older child sits near me.
I think their parents tell them to be careful of where they Sit on the subway.
I am safe, and he knows it.
Doors open.
My boyfriend has those shorts.
Doors close.
I just realized this train is going local.
I am distracted.
I wear these shoes too much.
Canal street makes me think dirty thoughts.
Doors open.
Eye contact with a pretty girl who looks like Diane Lane.
I think I have pen on my face.
Long wait and hesitation.
Doors close.
Sleeping man in red. I think he's sad.
Now convinced, I wish things were different.
The train stands still.
The tapping foot gets louder.  Sometimes people are nervous.
Starting up and go.
Doors open.
A crazy man is yelling.  His voice cracks loudly.
People shift and look at their shoes.
He wears all black.  His smell hits me as he walks past.
He thinks he is a prophet.
Doors open .
Doors close.
Peace regained on the train.
I notice many men don't wear socks with their shoes in the summer.
Makes me think of smelly feet.
I would probably do the same thing if I couldn't wear sandals.
Doors open.
Leopard print.
Diane Lane is so pretty.
Doors close.
I feel like Huckleberry Finn, covered in ink.
Doors open, then close.
This guy loves to work out and has the shoes to prove it.
Apocalypse partner.
We slow. Doors open.
I lose track of the red shirt guy.
Doors close.
The next time they open, the world will change.
There will be sky again.
Slowly, doors open.

open letter week

http://www.lastmomonearth.com/2012/06/open-letter-week-letter-to-girl-at.html

Dear MKT,

I saw a picture of you.  You were younger than me, an age for you that is hard for me to wrap my head around.

You were pretty in a familiar kind of way.  I searched for myself in your face and was disappointed when I found very little similarity.  I hope to be like you someday.

There are pictures of you with friends, with your husband.  I am jealous.  I don't think it's fair that they got to choose you.  I was born into it, expected to love.  As a young child, this is something one may resent.

If we were children together, I would have braided your hair.  We would have been lake friends and climbed on rocks smelling of moss and pine.
Mini scrapes on our legs after a day acting as mermaids.
Sun-kissed skin and hair.

Later we would have written letters with first accounts of first loves, me feeling a little envious of the boys taking the place of late night phone calls.
Never censored, we would laugh with gremlin faces and wear over-sized shirts for pajamas, asking questions and telling all.

At your father's funeral, I would have stood, scared and awkward.  My own tears flowing, putting myself in your place.

Once a year through college we would visit.  I would tell you how beautiful you have become.   You would tell me how hard it has been.

I would have chosen you to be my best friend, but when it comes to this letter, I do not know how to talk about us as adults.

Your grace, understanding, compassion, knowledge.

Would you want to see me now?

You had such faith in me.

You know me better than I know you.  The memories you have go further back: you remember when I was born, I remember wiggling off your lap, embarrassed to be so loved.

In older years I watched my mother curling your hair.  Your eyes were closed.  You missed being touched, and relished, like the monkeys we are, being groomed.  You seemed so human I wanted to cry.

(Thoughts of us together as children, braiding your hair....)

This is my apology for being the youngest and late to the game.
For not being the friend I wish I had been had circumstances been different.
For being the boy in "The Giving Tree" while you, the Tree, gave all.

You are rooted deep in my bones.
That is unshakable.
And despite not choosing you,  I would have never wanted anyone else.  I am lucky.
You were loved and continue to be loved everyday of my life without you.
And I loved you, so much, when you were in it.

Just thought you should know.

Love Always,
Your granddaughter

Patti Smith gets it

"it is said that children do not distinguish between living and inanimate objects; I believe they do. A child imparts a doll or tin soldier with magical life-breath. The artist animates his work as the child his toys." -Patti Smith

"Discovering a New Fear, a Conversation"

Woman: I've discovered a new fear.

Man: What's that?

Woman: The fear of turning off the TV.

Man: Okay.  I get it.  I'll turn off the TV.

Woman: It is even on when it's on mute and I'm in the the shower and you're working on your computer.

Man: Okay, turn it off.  We'll listen to music or something.

Woman: No, see, now your think I'm attacking you.  That's not what I was doing.  I keep the TV on all the  time.  When you are not here, the TV is still on.  I keep it on when I walk the dog for Christ Sake. When I turn it off it's a bold decision.  I turn it on (snap) just like that....the minute I walk through the door.

What am I afraid of?

Man: I don't think it's a fear thing.  It's a habit.  A bad habit.

Woman: I've thought about this.  It's not like a fear of being along.  I love being alone in the quiet sometimes....often actually.

Man: So you want me to leave you alone.

Woman: That is not what I'm saying.  What I meant was....usually when I am in a situation where I find myself alone in the quiet, I think it's peaceful and nice.

Man: Hippie

Woman: Okay.  It must be a fear.  It's compulsive.....and my default emotion IS fear.  My compulsion to keep a background running at all times is my immediate way of keeping the fear at bay.
But what am I afraid of?
Turning the TV off?
The silence I cherish?
Getting actual true artistic thoughtful work done?  Committing to that?
...Oh shit.

Man:....What?

Woman: Am I afraid to actually get work done?  Like, real true to life true to art work?  Am I just delaying my fear of that failure?  Of failing at the thing I have wanted my whole life?

Man: I think you're just lazy.

Old Ghosts

I am not claiming to be brave. I get scared. I am terrified of having an aneurysm on the subway, of never achieving my goals, of getting hit by a car, of not being loved. And honestly, of Zombies. But I am not afraid of the dark, of water, of heights, or of the woods. The ghosts are not going to get me there. That's where I go for safety. It's my get-away plan. I do not understand the concept of messing with people, of haunting them. Maybe I am not bold enough, not brave enough. But really, where is the satisfaction in that? I love getting the last word, don't get me wrong. Dragging things out no longer appeals to me. Go towards the light, little ghosts. Leave this place. And rest in peace.

A quote from "Portnoy's Complaint"

"'Don't you see what my life is? You think I like being nobody? You think I'm crazy about my hollow life? I hate it! I hate New York! I don't ever want to go back to that sewer! I want to live in Vermont, Commissioner! I want to live in Vermont with you - and be an adult, whatever the he'll that is! I want to be Mrs. Somebody-I-Can-Look-Up-To. And Admire! And Listen To!'" -Philip Roth

Lil' Bugs

The driftwood is warm.
Almost hot.
On second thought, I kick it.
Lil' bugs go running not to the sand, but around to the other side.
It's high tide, this wood has just arrived, and it's already a warm home for someone.  someones.
I disrupted things.
I am their hurricane, earthquake, Godzilla.
The waves are rising.
The driftwood is rocking in the sand.
Red, brown, grey.
The sun is setting and I am not alone.
Lil' bugs are living their lives.

The Moral Hangover

A fantastic phrase. I wish I could take credit.  I know that one of my wittier friends came up with it, and, friend, if you are reading this, please remind me that you were the one to coin the phrase "moral hangover" as well as it's definition.
This is my struggle.  I second guess most decisions and regret much of the past. Here's the thing, I am a good person.  I do not speak poorly of my friends.  Ever.  I love my family and am a natural caretaker.  But when someone accuses me of an unkind action or gets the wrong impression, I second guess myself over and over again.
And truthfully, we don't always know how what we say are going to be perceived, do we?  I may go into a situation with the best intentions only to find that I stuck my nose where it did not belong or said something with the incorrect intonation, making it sound sarcastic or insincere.
I am no saint.   This is not what I claim.  That's laughable.  I have made mistakes. Many.
Here is the moral hangover: I am unable to forgive myself for things I have done when I was a child. 
I remember a childhood friend of mine who told me I was a bully.  What?!   And at the time I pondered over what I had done to him to make him say that...
Days and nights.
And then it hit me: as a joke while in the woods with our buddies, I told him to stick his head in the water to see if there were any leeches.  I didn't actually want him to do that, of course.  I don't even know why I said it. I do know what I felt when it happened.  I felt happy to be in the woods with my fun friends. 
As an adult, I can see how that was mean.  At the time, I just wasn't thinking.  I was playing.  I adored this friend of mine, and to this day I still feel terrible that I made him feel like an outcast, a victim.
Oh moral hangover, why must you last so long.
The reason I bring this up now: because my moral hangovers are heavy and abundant, I am reliving the past, recent and ancient. I comb through what may have happened that I missed....something I should not have done or said. And what gets me is this: I actually keep messing up!  I miss the mark, hurt feelings, put my foot in my mouth.  When it comes to my attention, the guilt is overwhelming.
This makes it very hard to grow up.
So, please forgive me? I betcha I didn't mean it!

Thoughts on living in a tourist area

Today is beautiful. Take the dog for a run. Shall we go to the Promenade? No. I can't even see the railing through the crowd. No worries, this'll just force me to take a longer route. We'll go to the park. I have been meaning to lengthen my runs. This is a surprise: a lack of Jehovahs. OR maybe they are just masked by the literal parade of mid-westerners walking the most fun part of my run, the down-hill part. Okay dog, we'll run on the street. No cars usually come this way. Ah, the park. It's in full spring bloom. Deep breaths. I have made it. I am happy. I feel great. Running is getting easier. The dog is smiling. It's good to dance around people taking photos. It's working muscles not needed in a straight uncrowded run. I will never get sick of this skyline. Instead of a loop around, why don't we take the streets back? This way I can stop running through people's memories. They aren't so bad. It is Sunday after all, and where would Broadway be without tourists? I am looking forward to conquering this hill, dog, aren't you? Oh. European tourists. Multiple groups of five walking abreast. My dog and I run single file. We are being polite. Really? REALLY! You can't move over just a little? Nope, I will not run on the cobblestone street. I am a clumsy spaz. I will twist my ankle and have to stop running and I will sit around all day getting out of shape. And you won't help me. You think New Yorkers are scary and rude. You think I'M rude because I am running through you, mother f**ker?! That's right. It's 15 against 1....no 2 including the dog. I am conquering this hill and all of it's challenges! An old man with a cane, a Brooklynite, stops to smile at me and the dog. He knows. He'll help me take them down if necessary. We share a knowing glance and a few words. Last stretch. In the sunshine. Lovely trees. Lovely flowers. I play unintentional hopscotch the last few blocks. I feel great. Stupid tourists.

stunted

I spent the night last night with my very close friends in New Jersey.  They are real grown-ups.
They own their own lovely home.  They have a beer fridge and a liquor cabinet. They have a two car garage and a front and back porch.
They also have two adorable children.
Playing with their kids is a highlight for me.  It isn't a biological clock thing.  It's fun.   It's plain and simple fun.
And the thing is, they know I'm not faking it.  They recognize my giggles and games as honest enjoyment.  I don't have the energy to play as long as they can, and I believe that I detected slight pity in their smiles as I said "wow, this is hard," and took my seat at the kitchen counter.
Here is the kicker, and I honestly cannot get over her timing: the beautiful three year old girl turned to me during dinner and said "You're like a grown-up kid."
Her insight shocked me.  Smart girl.
I think I may have to go over to their house to play more often.

Crabby Coney

Even though it was April, it was warm enough to go down to the beach.
So they did.
He waited on the boardwalk, content just to look.
She stopped fighting and went to the water on her own.  First her shoes came off, then her shirt.
Can't help but be self-conscious in a flesh-colored bikini, so her jean skirt stayed on.
The water still feels like April water.  It's not right: April water and June weather.
The shirt that washed up to shore followed by a plastic bag acting like a jellyfish sealed the deal.
It was too soon for her favorite season:
Summer.

Start Today

One day, I will grow-up.