Month-In-Review: February

I think after such an auspicious showing in January, I had too many expectations for this month.  Aw, hell.  It wasn't that bad...

• My first book club meeting was a lot of fun, and there are some pretty cool women who live in my apartment complex.  I definitely look forward to discussing March's book in a couple of weeks.

• I bit the bullet and went from the "safe" side-sweeping bangs to a fringe cut and it's cute!  It also reminded me that that's what I am: cute.  Not altogether sexy or glamorous or exotic, but cute.  Just don't squeeze my cheek, okay?

• I applied to 9 out of the 10 "quota" jobs.  Why didn't I get that last one in?  I just never built up the momentum, and I fell into a bit of a funk last week, my stomach in knots, hot/cold, achy...you know.  I was sick.  I considered getting that last one in today just to meet my goal, but then I thought that goals were over-rated.  

• I tried the gym, and I liked it!  I'm even going to drop some serious dough to purchase a one-year membership.  I can't believe it.  

• I didn't drop the pounds, though.  Okay, maybe one.  I'll take it.  

• I might need a root canal.  

And so February comes to a close.  I wish winter would, too.  The few days of 50 and 60 degrees was a balm to my chapped lips and cheeks.  Spring and fall are my favorite seasons, the in-betweens.  I wonder if that's because I'm a middle child?

Today's Fondest Wish

A little of this:

I've lived in the Midwest all of my life.  I can handle a little snow and ice.  Carving into my car just to get at the gas tank door (as my sister and I did today, since I was nearing empty and I didn't have the presence of mind to fill up before the world turned into one big ice slick) is par for the course around here.

But damn it, it doesn't make me a wimp to wish for spring, and not these taunting little hints of it with two or three days of sunny 50+ degree weather.  Mother Nature, it hurts when you tease me so.

Tostadas! Tostadas!

This past Sunday evening, as I sat on the sofa letting my mind wander during a commercial break of Kiss the Girls on Oxygen, I thought about the following day, Valentine's Day.  My thoughts didn't linger long there, as the holiday has no meaning for me at this footloose and fancy free stage in my life.  However, because the week ahead was already on my mind, I thought further to Tuesday and the date, February 15, and then I thought no more of it, for a nanosecond.  But even that nanosecond made me feel like I forgot something very important, and the forgetting, however fleeting, stung.  February 15, 1995, was the day my mom passed away, at age 43.  Sixteen years is a long time, but it should never be long enough to forget. 

The loss of a parent is supremely personal.  Even among siblings, the experience is different.  My relationship with my mom was not the same relationship she had with my sisters and my brother.  As a result, a lot of our memories of her are unique, and ours alone.  So I won't talk about those.  I will discuss, however, a specific impression I have of my mother, one that my siblings share.  That was dinnertime.

I wouldn't say that my mom was a culinary genius.  I doubt as children we would have even liked haute cuisine.  (As an adult, my appreciation for food has remained comfortably simple.)  She did, however, take the time to make dinner, and I would venture to say that she sometimes made dinner interesting.  The title of this post refers to taco night, when she set up an assembly line of ground beef, lettuce, cheese, and taco shells.  Did she announce dinner with phrases like the succinct, "Dinner!"?  "Soup's on!"?  "Get it while it's hot!"?  No.  She sang out, "Tostadas!  Tostadas!  Do-do-dodo-do-do."  And there might have been a jig involved.  Who can resist loading up their plate with that ditty in her head?

Other family favorites included Spanish rice and baked hot dogs topped with mashed potatoes and cheese.  Suddenly I'm craving potato soup with ham cubes.  What I won't crave, however, were some of the duds, because no matter how much I love her and miss her, there were some fails.  I remember a chicken and rice casserole that in retrospect had ingredients that I love today, like broccoli and Parmesan cheese (and water chestnuts, which I can live without), but I always associated it with the small of vomit, and many times she dumped it days later after it sat in the fridge, spraying Lysol over the stench, so then it was Lysol-enhanced vomit.  I can't smell that original Lysol scent today without shuddering.

Looking back, it seems like it was the same rotation of meals for years, but I don't recall ever being bored with what was on my plate, and it is the single most clear memory I have of her.  A lot of the meals are common, easily replicated with a quick browse of recipe sites, a device my younger sister and I used last year when we recreated some those food memories.  One was tuna casserole, cobbled together with crescent rolls.  I hadn't had it for years (I did go through a phase about a year ago of making the hot dog/mashed potatoes).  One bite of it and I could envision my mom pulling the cookie sheet out of the oven, with me standing beside her in that small galley kitchen, anxious for the first cut. 

It's a good memory.

And now I'm hungry.

Awkward Silences

The job hunt has made me think not only how I might meet the various qualifications that line the pages of employment opportunities, but also how they manifest through other people in my daily life, and customer service (very desirable in reference work) tugged at my thoughts last week when I went to pick up breakfast for the office.  I walked into the deli and there are six people behind the counter, and no other customers.  I fully expected a pleasant, efficient experience.  The only person over age eighteen greeted me with a smile and asked for my order, then set off to fill the first part of it.  Several others were busy preparing meals and barely looked at me.  I glanced around the empty dining room and wondered at what was keeping the staff on its toes.  I found enlightenment a few minutes later when an employee sat down and began eating  Her break had been imminent when I walked in; how could she be bothered with a simple hello?  Still, I'm an understanding sort, and she hadn't been tasked with preparing my order, so whatevs.  I turned back to the counter to have a different employee ask for my order as if I hadn't given it thirty seconds prior.  Patient and kind as I always am (ahem), I explained that it was being handled and moved on to the register.  Three people stood in the kitchen doorway across from the register, chatting and avoiding eye contact until a couple of minutes later one nudged another towards the register.  He brought up the order at which point I discovered that they either ignored or completely forgot the second half of my order, which I then repeated for the third time.  The experience wasn't a disaster, just mildly exasperating.  And the kids (I mean employees) weren't rude, just unobservant.  They met my needs, after all. 

So, what does good customer service mean?  Does it have anything to do with how I perceive my own skills (the deli staff might have felt that they did a bang up job), or is it all up to the customer to decide if I meet the mark?  Goodness knows that I try my best, but I often wonder how my customers feel about that best.  During face to face transactions, especially, I'm self-conscious.  We see many of our policyholders only when they stop in to pay their premiums.  The process is quick and painless, for the most part.  We take the money, print a receipt, and send them on their way with a smile (well, we smile; no one likes paying insurance premiums).  Our computers, however, are slow.  S-L-O-W.  The transactions may take up to five minutes or more (when usually 30 seconds to a minute should suffice), and during the data entry and plain old waiting, the atmosphere is wrought with silence.  No small talk, nothing.  I feel like I should fill this void, but other than the weather, nothing comes to mind.  I just want to take care of their business and be done.  I'm meeting their needs, I'm polite, and I move as quickly as possible with the tools I have, but is that good customer service when there is potentially so much awkwardness?  Or am I the only one who is awkward?  And how can I effectively convey my confidence in this area without a page of testimonials from happy customers attached to my resume?

You know, I should welcome those awkward silences.  They are so much better than the times when I need to hold my temper in check when a customer does everything in his/her power to test/belittle/demand the world on a platter from me.  I am a service-provider, but I also have limitations.  For example, I have absolutely NO influence over the decision-makers at multi-million-dollar insurance companies.  Really, I don't.  I do my best, but I'm not omnipotent. 

Why does that word make me giggle?