A can of tuna

Got my teeth drilled on this morning, then went to training for a new teaching job where the boss I'd made cupcakes for wasn't there. I mentioned the fact I'd made cupcakes more than I should have, but I was just that excited about them.

 I spent over and hour in traffic for what should have been a twenty-minute drive and was thinking about having a simple tuna sandwich or maybe some Mac 'n' Cheese for dinner (actually, for the only thing I would eat all day, since I'd skipped both breakfast and lunch). I got home to find a tell-tale can opener on the counter and my last can of tuna gone--eaten by a somewhat-repentant roommate. I waved it off and went to make the Mac only to find that we were out of milk! I settled in for a bowl of soup and some toast, being the only things left to eat. Halfway through my repast, my car-less roomie was back with a single can of tuna.

 I don't know why I felt guilty, but I did. It's hard times for everyone; I just don't like when others eat my food or use my things. I've had people make me feel badly about this and I don't know why that should be. I learned how to share in kindergarten; I also learned that there are some things that are indeed labeled "personal property." I work hard to have simple things like food and cleaning supplies and laundry detergent--why should other benefit at my expense?

 This situation is a microcosm of American society as a whole. While many who are on unemployment or on welfare are completely justified in their personal reasons and circumstances to be there, there continue to be people in this country who simply live off the largesse of others. Yes, others. Not just the government but also the hardworking taxpayers who continue to provide that very largesse.

 I am one of the 99%--a twenty-something with a BA and an MS (in progress) who knows well enough that the world is tough and not too kind to those who do nothing to advance themselves but instead rely on others to do their heavy lifting.

 I never understood the parable of the foolish virgins until recently. As the parable goes, virgins are waiting to welcome the bridegroom and be invited to his feast, but their lamps are about to burn out, due to poor planning on their part. They appeal to the virgins whose lamps are full and plead for them to spare some oil. Why should they, the other virgins reply, when they were the ones who prepared? Why should their lamps go out too, as they surely would if the girls spared some oil. Why should they not be able to go to the feast? And while it may seem silly to compare roommate trevails with American society and then juxtapose that against the parable--I do believe it's correct. The Bible counsels us to help our brothers (and sisters) but also counsels that each of us should bear our own burdens. Too wild? Too abstract? Taken out of context? Your thoughts?

After all of that, I was absolutely driven to the hammock, the beautiful outdoors, and a good book.

Beautiful cupcakes!

I baked then decorated a cupcake so beautiful, I Pinned it, Facebooked it, and am now blogging it. Such a scrumptious creation!

Hipsters don't smoke.

This guy is walking towards me, about to pass me. I note and quickly judge his pseudo-Ray Bans and hipster-ish swagger.

I wanna yell, "Hipsters don't smoke!" or something equally asinine.

It's funny. In Californian social culture, we are taught to respect the rights of others, unequivocally. And no sooner was that pounded into our young brains, we were subtly taught that smoking=bad. So bad, in fact, that many are seeking to ban it from the state.

Hence, my gut reaction. Judgement.

His hipsterishness: judgement.

Of course, I'm the biggest accidental hipster there ever was, so I shouldn't be talking. The OC version, anyway. I'm passing him, wearing Marc Jacobs sunglasses, an obscure designer T-shirt, yoga pants, AND a yoga mat.

Ahh, life.

Last day at The Restaurant

Tonight, I venture into the (sort of) unknown.

Tonight, I wait my last table (sort of).

I've picked up another show, which means I am now directing three shows simultaneously, while teaching film acting classes in South County, theatre and musical theatre classes in the Inland Empire, and going to school.

Getting the contract for the third show equals cash for the wedding...so The Restaurant had to go. Temporarily.

It's nice to not have to schedule The Restaurant into my already-packed schedule, but I am sure going to miss that steady cash flow.

Now...snapshots from the night!

I want to conduct myself like the model employee I am, so I show up 15-20 minutes early for my dinner shift. My nails are paint-free, my hair shellacked into place--there is nothing about my appearance that would call for a manager to give me the whole "but-you're-a-trainer-so-we-must-make-an-example-of-you" routine.

I fill out the nonsensical papers having to do with my selling scores and the store's scores. Until this paper is filled out, I cannot actually take tables. I don't mind doing it, I get why it's needed--to keep all servers aware of how their sales directly impact the store and the company as a whole--but it's so inconsistently administered that it's a bit of a joke. In my six years at this store and eight with the company, I have only seen these silly cards filled out when the REGIONAL MEN start breathing down Boss's neck.

I fill it out, cheerfully hand it off, note my so-so station (currently full and in use by another server, so it'll be an hour before I get a table), and go off to banter with the staff.

And the night--for me, anyway--turns out to be a bit busier than usual on Sundays. The mall closes at an astonishing 6 PM--and we're open until 9. In the last hour, I get sat with a 13-top of a particular group who prefers iceless drinks and constantly repeats, "We're vegetarian--no meat!"

(You lurking servers know what I'm talking about!)

I am bone-weary and over the whole damn shift. I dreamily envision an immediate future in which I simply walk out...but there I am, walking over to the table anyway.

"Hello! How's everyone doin' tonight?" is my standard breezy greeting. I accompany it with my flashiest, widest grin. Might as well.

And then they order. Five Chicken Tequila Fettucine Pastas modified to hell (two, no chicken, extra sauce and lime, one with chicken and extra sauce and extra sauce on the side, one with no chicken, but sub broccoli and mushrooms with...yep, extra sauce...and then a fifth one, snuck in when all the food has been brought out--no chicken, extra sauce, and Waitress, bring me a bowl of limes--yes, a bowl--and extra pasta sauce--oh, yes--extra sauce for me, too), four Tostada pizzas--you don't have jalepenos? Well, add serrano peppers, then!--all with more modifications...the order went on.

And to top it off, we'd run out of the complimentary bread.

Folks, our bread SUCKS. It's hard, cold, and tasteless. It's like chewing cardboard--I kid you not. And because we have to keep things all fabulous and healthy, the butter is ice-cold and is barely spreadable.

And they are DEMANDING the bread.

"But it's Sunday," I once told a table, "and we have Sunday bread (meaning stale)/we're out of bread, so I'll get you a side of pita..."

But, alas, there was no bread--and no PITA either!

I got them to buy four small Foccacia breads (2.50 a pop and actually pretty decent) but I knew they weren't happy about the free bread being...well...unfree.

Thank goodness they had four adorable small ones, because I do really well with kids. I teased and joked and flirted (with the one-year-old) and earned every cent of the $40 gratuity.

And then my last table of the night, my last table until the summer, came in. I'm glad I don't have a horror story to relate on this one: they were a nice, sweet young couple. The kitchen gods had mercy on my poor, jaded server's soul.

When they left, I was rewarded with

so I guess I did all right.

I paid off my favorite server to do my sidework and condiments, ate some Chicken Tequila Pasta myself...and clocked out.

Now I venture into supporting myself solely through my directing and teaching work. It's a bit scary, but in a kind of mad, exhilarating way. 

I'm lucky to have a job to return to, but I have to say that the vacation from The Restaurant--especially as I am fast closing in on eight years there--is just what the kitchen doctors have ordered.

Re-Establishment

I apparently started this blog back in 2008--I think it was an attempt to reserve 'strwbrysunshine' which has been my handle since 1998--and I stumbled upon it a few days ago, with a few old posts. I've deleted those and have overhauled the page...for the better.

"Strawberry Sunshine"...what is this blog about? Why a blog, anyway?

This blog is to chronicle and explore my adventures and thoughts, and I'd love to welcome you aboard my life journey of seeing the world through strawberry-coloured lenses. My interests are wide and my occupations varied: I'm a Jill-of-all-trades at The Restaurant (that's what I'll call it for now), working as a manager, bartender, server, trainer, and kid's tour guide. I direct for the theatre, with an emphasis in children's theatre, though I work with ages five through ninety. I instruct for the theatre at several various locations, each one having their own artistic administration to deal with...and I've just gone back to school to supplement my BA in Directing with an MS in Education...I think I shall have some interesting fodder for this blog o'mine.

About me: sure, you could simply read the sidebar--> and it's correct. I am getting married this June to another theatre director who was (once upon a time) my instructor...let's call him the Irishman. He's the love of my life and I am truly blessed.

I was in a seven + year relationship, went on tour for a popular children's theatre touring company, broke up the relationship, started dating my tour partner, had my heart broken, got offered a job as a youth director by the Irishman, finished the tour with the ex trying to get back into the picture and the Irishman vying for my attention...And then I threw up my hands, said, "Why not?" and started dating the Irishman.

A year and a half later, here we are...on the road to forever.

Why a blog, indeed.