Just Write October 21, 2010

I have a lovely job now with a lovely boss. But there was a time when I had the Worst Job in the World. I worked as an assistant manager for – can I say it? – Friendly’s.  You might think that working around hamburgers, french fries, and ice cream would be fun, but you would be dead wrong. My recollection of working there is that it was a greasy, sticky mess of a job.

We were asked/forced to wear Shoes for Crews, a special type of slip-proof footwear that kept us from sloshing around on the many puddles of grease and melted ice cream. The shoes had special grooves in the bottom to channel out the grease, in much the same way as my Michelins keep my foreign-named but American-made car from slipping off the road.

The special grooves in the shoes, however, kept the grease in. So at the end of the night, if I forgot to wash out the grooves, I came home with solidified grease in the bottoms of my shoes, which caused me to leave weird black tracks throughout my house. And in case you’re wondering, yes, the grease smelled like poo.

Many times, I would be stuck washing dishes instead of doing my managerial duties because the real dishwasher either didn’t show up, or had abandoned his post mid-shift. Believe me when I tell you, having a good dishwasher is probably more important than having a good cook on staff.

My boss at Friendly’s was thisclose to being crazy. She was also a spitter, meaning as she was talking to you, spittle would fly out of her mouth. And she believed in invading your personal space, so she was a close spitter. Good times.

And the customers! One time, one of the servers brought up a small, rock-like thing and said the customer had bitten into it in the steak. Our steaks were boneless and uber-tenderized, so I was a little confused. As I turned the thing over in my hands, I noticed there was a tiny screw-like place on the rock. About that time, the server came back up and said the customer was sorry, but the rock was actually one of her dental crowns!

 

Just Write October 19, 2010

Back to work after a three-day vacation, and all I want to do now is post again on my new little blog. I have a wonderful job with a wonderful boss, after having a wonderful job with a crappy boss. Maybe I’ll write about the latter someday, but she still gives me the willies, and it’s been more than three years. Sheesh.

Schatzi, our indeterminate-aged German shepherd, greeted me at the door today. Most of the time, she looks like this:

 

Ain't she sweet?

 

I used to write for a community newspaper, and one of my favorite stories involved a landscape company that had a contract with the county.  Another landscape company brought it to my attention that the former company was receiving money for work that had not been done. I told the guy that it would be hard to prove. The guy told me where the small plot of land was that was not being mowed, and he brought me receipts that showed the company was being paid every week. I went out and took pictures every week, and sure enough, the land was not being mowed.

When I called the company (after a month of data-gathering), I asked them why they were collecting money for work that was not being done. They hung up on me. The next day, I went out to the land, and surprise! the grass was freshly mowed. The company ended up losing their contract with the county, and for awhile, I was in fear that the lawn company would somehow retaliate against me.

Miss those days.

Just Write October 18, 2010

One of my favorite authors, Stephen King, says that if you are serious about writing, you should write between four to six hours a day. I believe that I am serious about writing, and have, in fact, been told that I have a gift for it. However, I do not write as much as King says. I write when I have a freelancing assignment, or when work requires it. I was haughty enough to believe that King’s rule does not apply to me.

So here I start, the first of hopefully many entries of practice writing. (Two minutes just clicked by. I don’t think I can do this.)

In his book “On Writing,” King talks about his early life and slow, painful rise to stratospheric paychecks, as well as the nuts and bolts of the craft of writing. King and his brother (I forget his name at the moment), grew up in a single-parent household where his mother encouraged his efforts at writing, with probably the same encouragement that all our mothers give us.

The brothers wrote and published a community newsletter, which they would then sell for 25 cents a copy. King also submitted stories to the magazines of the day, occasionally getting some published, but far more often than not receive rejection letters. It continued like this for a while, even when King went to college, and after, when he became an English teacher.

Still, every night, King would write at his desk, churning out story after story. His wife Tabitha encouraged his efforts. One day, King received a phone call that a novel he had written would be published, and they wanted to option the paperback rights for it. When his publisher told him the amount, King made him repeat it, and asked how many zeroes that was. “Carrie” had just been sold for $250,000.

Maybe there’s something to this practice after all.