Is it too much,
to wallow awhile
in my sorrow?
Am I too much
to handle awhile?
I ache.
I swallow it
awhile
longer.
I wallow
awhile
longer.
I fashion afar
brighter future,
beyond
present
madness.
Is it too much,
to wallow awhile
in my sorrow?
Am I too much
to handle awhile?
I ache.
I swallow it
awhile
longer.
I wallow
awhile
longer.
I fashion afar
brighter future,
beyond
present
madness.
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There was a time when I felt sorry for the middle-aged women who worked the deli counter at my local grocer. I used to create scenarios of their personal histories in my head to pass time, while I watched them slice my honey ham, oven roasted turkey and low salt swiss. I wondered how they “ended” up there, never imagined our roles could change, that I might find myself in their shoes, filling orders from well-heeled housewives and stay at home Mom’s. Divorce turned the tables. I am now one of them.
I work toward the back of Whole Foods Market on South Street in Philadelphia. On any given day, chances are, if you walk through the front door, hang a left past the bakery, you will see me, standing behind the prepared foods case, at the ready to serve. I expected to be a restaurant owner at this stage, never pictured myself here. I am oddly surprised by how I feel about
it, a midlife twist of fate. Strange mix of happiness, definitely, and dare I say, contentment? I enjoy what I do.
A deli worker’s position does not come with culinary bells and whistles, accolades from fellow chefs, nor rave reviews in a local paper. My skill set is certainly beyond simple cooking tasks that I perform on a daily basis. The hourly wage I earn barely pays the bills. Yet, for the first time in my life, I do not feel restless. I am no longer searching for something to make me happier. I am okay where I am and with what I am doing. Life does not always play by our rules or follow our set in mind patterns. The path I’m on now, however ordinary, is one I have grown to love. I am known as The Deli Queen, and damn proud of this hard-earned title.
My work day begins at 7:00 am. I punch my ID number into a time clock outside the employee break-room. I don a chef’s coat, cover my wet pony tail with a baseball cap, and walk down a flight of stairs into a 24/7 operation, a kitchen that never sleeps. I am greeted by a sea of white jacket clad cooks, a lively, multigenerational cast of characters, a remarkably mixed bag of cultures, and personalities. Muzak, via Whole Foods “exclusive” music station, fills our ears. Shared air slowly thickens with the aroma of Rotisserie chicken.
I lay claim to a space for myself on a prep table, collect my mise en place and begin to prepare 50 sandwiches that will hopefully last through lunch hour rush. Between 7:45 and 7:50 our store leader Jessie’s voice can be heard over the intercom. He thanks us for showing up, states the daily business forecast, and wishes us a great day. I take my place behind platters laden with rare roast beef, house-roasted turkey, and countless dishes of vegetables. A cashier unlocks the front doors. It is 8:00am when the retail games begin.
We have a good number of regulars, those who order the same things each time they visit. I know them by name. We chit-chat and joke with one another as I fill container after container with mashed potatoes, crisp green beans, and our most popular dish, General Tsao’s vegan chicken. For the record, it may be vegan, but it’s deep-fried, not healthy.
Customers, my fellow employees consider too difficult to wait on present a challenge I willingly embrace. Despite their condescension, and lack of manners, I know how to tame these shrews. Small subtle doses of my trademark sarcasm they seem oblivious to, go a long way, and keeps them at bay. In fact, these difficult “cases” seem to really like me, and request me name. I welcome thorny customer interactions, and know when to put on my kid gloves.
We have no number system in place to bridle Jo Public. We learned in training that paper chits are not the “Whole Foods Way”. Our guests can and will determine who is first in line. Ninety nine percent of the time, this approach to crowd control works out well. When a jerk does butt to the front of the line we rest easy, and go about our work, deaf to the poor soul’s demands. We know that our loyal and patient customers amid the herd will not hesitate to put any line crashers in their proper place. From my vantage point, it is delightful to observe these true-blue, Philadelphia style, public displays of affection. “Yo! Buddy! We was here first! Yous need to wait your turn!” The chastisement of wayward fools is music to my ears, and makes deli work, sans paper chits, a veritable breeze.
My years as a homemaker made me forget how much I enjoy working with the public. I could not ask for more than the endless parade of human entertainment my job provides me; formerly fit men in short-shorts, grungy too cool for school hipsters, and Mommies who demand fried chicken nibblers, because that’s all they can get their little darlings to eat. Of all these people, I adore seniors most. Older folks who tote their granny carts, smile sweetly as they order five slices of white American cheese, and quietly reveal their time-worn, oft confused states of mind.
My hands down, favorite among this group is Winifred, who prefers to be called Winnie. She stands out from the crowd in her neatly pressed blouses, and finely knit, timeless blazers. Her silk scarves and matching hats never fail to draw attention. She is the Grandmother we all wish we had. She is sharp as a tack on the surface. One would never guess her to be eighty-nine years of age. About two weeks ago I had the pleasure to wait on her.
We dished for twenty minutes; I her food, and she tidbits of daily dirt in the local news. As an older person, her knowledge and grasp of current affairs amazes me. As we finished up, I walked out from behind the counter to place the containers in her cart. She thanked me, leaned in close to give me a hug and peck me on the cheek.
“Can I ask you a question?” She whispered.
“Of course, Winnie! What is it?” I inquired.
“I know the year, and who’s president. I can tell you what I ate for dinner last night, but for the life of me I can’t remember the simple things. Can you please tell me what day of the week it is dear?”
I am humbled, and honored to be of help to this sweet woman. I know that it is Tuesday, but for her sake, I feign ignorance. “You know what? I’m not sure. You’re not alone Winnie, I lose track of days too. Gimme a minute, I’ll go ask someone in the kitchen. Then we’ll both be sure.” Her eyes light up and she smiles. My day is complete.
I walked through the doors of Whole Foods Market almost a year ago. For the first six months, I felt sorry for myself. I was bitter and miserable. My head was not in the game. I looked for every reason to quit. I showed up late, and called out sick on more than one occasion, unconsciously hoped to get fired. For months, when friends or family asked me how I was feeling about going back to work, I answered with a pat, “Great! I love it!” I lied. I laid awake each night in my half filled bed. I pined for my former existence, an intact marriage, and the ease and comfort of financial stability I knew then. I longed to be the woman in front of the deli counter again, not behind it working my ass off.
Try as I may, I cannot pinpoint exactly when the paradigm shift occurred in my brain. In all reality it makes no difference when it happened. What is important is the fact that my attitude changed, and for this, I am thankful. I no longer lay awake at night feeling sorry for myself. Interactions like the one I had with Winnie make it easy for me to resist hitting my alarm clock a second time in the morning. I look forward to getting up out of bed and off to work.
Slicing deli meat is not glamorous. Regardless of its low rung on the culinary career ladder, I can truthfully state, I enjoy my job. It does not define who I am, nor what I am capable of as I so foolishly believed for a while. I was out of the workforce for twenty years. I no longer beat myself up over where I’ve landed. I now stand on my own two feet. My career may not be moving at the speed I once had in mind, but at this juncture, I’m okay with its humbled pace. At peace with my past and current choices, I live my life one moment, one day, or as we say in the deli, one slice of De Parma prosciutto at a time.
My son Jimmy is on a train, headed back home, to Philadelphia. He has lived in Montana for the past sixteen months. He is coming back to live with me.
My brain tells me this is a mistake, my heart says you are his mother. The reality of our situation sits between my heart and my head, a mother’s leap of faith, in a boy who has lost his way. I am as ready as I will ever be. I knew this day would come.
With love and support from family and friends we will make this work.
Sick and tired of
Hanging on the edge,
Life’s periphery
She holds her breathe, grasps
Onto old-vine, slowly
Withers away,
Subsists on his
Trickle down love
Like a shiny Christmas ball, she hangs
On a branch too weak to
Sustain her
She holds tight, despite
A pretty sight
Pretty girl
Me, living on
Trickle down love
A pinky ring, he wears
Me well, though
Not every day, at
His beacon call, ever
Ready, I come
Out to play, when
he feels like it, just
Enough to
Keep me, shiny
Bauble to throw
His arm round, for
All the world to see
Trickle down love
A balloon, I float
Tethered to
Strings of hope
Afraid to say,
I must go now
Untie this knot
Please, let me be
I beg for treats
He throws scraps
To keep me, pretty
Pooch at his feet
A glimpse of him here, bittersweet
Taste of joy there, I
Eat leftovers, famished
Trickle down love
I question the crumbs, tiny
Morsels he feeds me
Better than
None?
Think not, I
Deserve more than
His remnants,
Odds and ends, his
Trickle down love
I am so hungry, and yet
I am full… of him
No boundaries remain
Edges all blurred
Where does he
End?
Where do I
Begin?
I am currently helping out a theatre company in Philadelphia called the Idiopathic Ridiculopathy Consortium. It’s a mouthful I know, but they are a truly talented and dedicated theatre company, worthy of every hard earned dime we can rustle up to aide them on their creative journey.
Less than a month ago we launched a Kick Starter fundraising campaign. We shot a fantastic video, to document their latest production, Marriage (an utterly improbable occurrence in two acts), by Nikolai Gogol.
The IRC breathe new life into absurdist theatre classics. Work by Frisch, Giradoux, Ianesco, and Vian, masterpieces, rarely seen by theatre goers here, or for that matter, anywhere in the world. But the IRC has a mission: to render this timeless theatre genre alive, rescue it from obscurity and place it in the public eye.
We are all excited about our February, premiere, Marriage. The play tells a story of the reluctant suitor, coerced, in competition, to win the hand of well dowried, bride to be, Agafya. Sound familiar? Though it was written in 1833, it is, eerily similar to modern matchmaking that happens, on reality TV. Picture an episode of “Millionaire Matchmaker” on Fox network and you have the idea.
Characters include a matchmaker, silly suitors, and a team of St. Petersburg cheerleaders, who throw their two rubles into an utterly hilarious arena.
Have a look at our pitch. If you have a dollar or two to share, throw it in their hat. Every dollar counts. If you are a lover of the arts, show your support. If you are near or in Philadelphia, come out to see Marriage. You will not be disappointed!
Join me, and help the IRC continue on their absurd journey. Help us preserve these rare theatrical gems. Give your nod of approval. Throw two rubles into an absurdist theatre troupe’s hat, so the Idiopathic Ridiculopathy Consortium can continue to bring good nothingness to life.
Follow the link below to for a wonderful taste of what they do best! I thank you for listening to my pitch and give up some cash, if you can. If you can’t, just enjoy this. It will put a smile on your face!
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I am currently helping out a theatre company in Philadelphia called the Idiopathic Ridiculopathy Consortium. It’s a mouthful I know, but they are a truly talented and dedicated theatre company, worthy of every hard earned dime we can rustle up to aide them on their creative journey.
Less than a month ago we launched a Kick Starter fundraising campaign. We shot a fantastic video, to document their latest production, Marriage (an utterly improbable occurrence in two acts), by Nikolai Gogol.
The IRC breathe new life into absurdist theatre classics. Work by Frisch, Giradoux, Ianesco, and Vian, masterpieces, rarely seen by theatre goers here, or for that matter, anywhere in the world. But the IRC has a mission: to render this timeless theatre genre alive, rescue it from obscurity and place it in the public eye.
Filed under Uncategorized
Goldman Sachs executives are pooping in their pants now. A peaceful protest took place outside of their gleaming towers the other day. I imagine the Goldman executives looking out from their corner offices seeing their ill begotten fortunes flashed before their eyes in the form of floating red balloons, with letters to the CEO attached. The red balloons are a fantastic metaphor for the shield our government has provided these huge corporations so that they could get rich at the price of the other 99%, us. Profit before the people.
We can POP their bubble if we all stand together and OCCUPY. metaphorically speaking, we hold the needle. Government by the people, power of the people. We are the people. I have included a link to an article I read on Alternet. Read it and see if you don’t agree. This peaceful protest serves as an incredible example for all Americans. It sent a clear message to the execs at Goldman’s and all other monopolistic corporations that are bedfellows of our “elected” officials. There wasn’t a damn thing the police or anyone on the security staff at Goldman Sachs could do about it. Makes me laugh out loud. I wonder if they might have considered shooting them with rubber bullets!
The real point is that this protest forced Goldman Sachs to take notice, to look at their past behavior and to seriously consider how they will go ahead in the future if they are to survive, or better yet fade off into the sunset. A new day is upon us. We have a right and a responsibility to take part in this movement; dare I say modern American revolution. Here’s to peaceful protest and red balloons; a child’s delight and beacon for progress.
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This picture came from another blog I have joined. It was a writing prompt. Here is the poem I wrote after looking at it.
Lucky Duck
Before my eyes alit, I knew
When
I looked up
Who
I would see
You’ve come unannounced to visit
Delighted to see you, though
Not surprised
You are with me each moment
I am away
Break of day into night
Lifeblood
Once strangers, now
Kindred spirits
We
Kismet?
Not so
Life
Hit or miss
Sliding doors
Serendipity smiles
One and one makes two
You and I
Universal sum
I memorize you daily
Your form, your smell,
your tongue
I watch as you lay there bathed
Early morning sun
A vision that sustains me
In my head while I’m gone
Away
Halved and
Whole
Our song
Drowns out the morning
Quacks
Fowl who must die
At my hands
You must have sensed my dismay
This morning as I sulked
To see you here
Pure joy
My love
For you
I consider myself
Lucky Duck
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