I have been job hunting for almost four months. It has been a very stressful time. How am I going to make car payments, house payments, pay for food, electricity, water, etc.. I am about at the point that I will take anything short of flipping hamburgers. I had a friend call and say that her husband needed some help in his job, would I be interested. Of course, I said yes, what could I possibly say when I needed the job so bad. Now let me tell you, I have cleaned housed, mowed yards, scrubbed toilets, so I was ready for some hard work. She said I would be helping him in some bathrooms.
Well, I got there and the job was a restroom attendant for the women. Now I know in the movies you always see an attendent in with the men, but I have never seen one in a ladies room. This was actually a bar in Arlington. He handed me a bag and told me to stand in the bathroom, make sure the sinks were always dry. I had various perfumes, mints, toothpicks, crazy glue for womens heals when they break and of course any female necessity you might need at any given time.
I swallowed my pride and went in that bathroom. I handed out paper towels, sprayed, spritzed and wiped. Still no tips. Women do not typicaly bring enought money into the bar because they expect their drinks to be bought. My bi questions was, where are you suppose to look when women come in? If you look at them in the face they think you are trying to confront then. If you look at their dress or shoes, they become upset as if you were trying to scope them out. They stand in front of the mirror and rearrange their boobs. Sometimes the boob comes flying out and the girl raises her dress to put the boob back on only to find out that that boob belongs to a man. Women do not care about tipping. They only care where you look and just so you are not looking at their man or girl friend. So as the night wore on, I started to collect some change and the pot continued to grow, and grow and grow.
All I could think about was I can't so this. I have a college degree and I have reduced myself to cleaning up after women in the bathroom. I worked from 8 until 2. It is an honest job and I should not have been embarrassed in the least, but I was just mortified. My friend asked me if I wanted to do the job again, I told her I would have to think about it because I had such a hard time. I did not as it turns out go back. I was too embarrased that someone I knew would see me in the bathroom, but I have to say I should probably think twice before I say no. It is like I said, good honest work. I just could not do it. I have nothing against anyone that does do it.
FYI I made $180.00 in tips that Saturday night. And I said women don't know how to tip!!
My life seems to be a bunch of questions. I am constantly wanting to know why, or how come. Maybe one day I will not be so nosey, but for now it is what it is...
Monday, September 27, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
A Father, Daughter & a Dog - story by Catherine Moore
"Watch out!
You nearly broad sided that car!" My father yelled at me. "Can't
you do anything
right?"
Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward
the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge
him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't
prepared for another
battle.
"I saw the car, Dad . Please don't yell at me when I'm
driving.."
My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I
really
felt.
Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home
I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to
collect my thoughts.... dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with
a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo
my inner turmoil. What could I do about
him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon . He had
enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength
against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack
competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house
were filled with trophies that attested to his
prowess.
The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he
couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that
same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He
became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing
age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger
man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart
attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic
administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen
flowing.
At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He
was lucky; he survived. But something inside Dad died. His zest
for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's
orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with
sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then
finally stopped altogether. Dad was left
alone..
My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on
our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere
would help him
adjust.
Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation.
It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I
did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up
anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and
argue.
Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the
situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments
for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to
soothe Dad 's troubled
mind.
But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to
be done and it was up to me to do
it.
The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically
called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow
Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices
that answered in
vain.
Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly
exclaimed, "I just read something that might help you! Let me go
get the
article.."
I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable
study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under
treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had
improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a
dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon.. After I
filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the
kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved
down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs.
Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs
all jumped up, trying to reach me.
I studied each one
but rejected one after the other for various reasons too big,
too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the
shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the
front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog
world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the
breed.
Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray.
His hip bones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his
eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they
beheld me
unwaveringly.
I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?" The
officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. "He's a funny
one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We
brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim
him. That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is
up tomorrow." He gestured
helplessly.
As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror.. "You
mean you're going to kill
him?"
"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have
room for every unclaimed
dog."
I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited
my decision. "I'll take him," I said. I drove home with the dog
on the front seat beside me.. When I reached the house I honked
the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad
shuffled onto the front porch... "Ta-da! Look what I got for
you, Dad !" I said
excitedly.
Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had
wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked
out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't
want it" Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the
house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles
and pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad
. He's
staying!"
Dad ignored me.. "Did you hear me, Dad ?" I screamed. At
those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his
sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring
at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled
free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in
front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his
paw..
Dad 's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw
Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited
patiently. Then Dad was on his knees hugging the
animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad
named the pointer Cheyenne . Together he and Cheyenne explored
the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes.
They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling
for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services
together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at is
feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three
years.. Dad 's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many
friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne 's
cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before
come into our bedroom at night.. I woke Dick, put on my robe and
ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene.
But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the
night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered
Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad 's bed. I wrapped his still form
in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a
favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help
he had given me in restoring Dad 's peace of
mind.
The morning of Dad 's funeral dawned overcast and dreary.
This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down
the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to
see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the
church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both
Dad and the dog who had changed his
life.
And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Do not neglect
to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have
entertained angels without knowing
it."
"I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he
said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle
that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had
just read the right article... Cheyenne 's unexpected appearance
at the animal shelter. . ..his calm acceptance and complete
devotion to my father. . and the proximity of their deaths. And
suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers
after
all.
Life is too short for drama or petty things, so laugh hard,
love truly and forgive quickly. Live While You Are Alive.
Forgive now those who made you cry. You might not get a second
time
God answers our prayers in His time........not
ours
My father sent this to me, i do not know where it came from It made me realize that I have a few people that I still need to tell them how much I love them..At some point I need to ask my family and God for forgiveness for some of the things I have done. I am afraid to do this. What if they do not want to forgive me. But even worse, what if I never even try...
"Watch out!
You nearly broad sided that car!" My father yelled at me. "Can't
you do anything
right?"
Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward
the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge
him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't
prepared for another
battle.
"I saw the car, Dad . Please don't yell at me when I'm
driving.."
My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I
really
felt.
Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home
I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to
collect my thoughts.... dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with
a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo
my inner turmoil. What could I do about
him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon . He had
enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength
against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack
competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house
were filled with trophies that attested to his
prowess.
The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he
couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that
same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He
became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing
age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger
man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart
attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic
administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen
flowing.
At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He
was lucky; he survived. But something inside Dad died. His zest
for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's
orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with
sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then
finally stopped altogether. Dad was left
alone..
My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on
our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere
would help him
adjust.
Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation.
It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I
did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up
anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and
argue.
Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the
situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments
for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to
soothe Dad 's troubled
mind.
But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to
be done and it was up to me to do
it.
The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically
called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow
Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices
that answered in
vain.
Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly
exclaimed, "I just read something that might help you! Let me go
get the
article.."
I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable
study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under
treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had
improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a
dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon.. After I
filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the
kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved
down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs.
Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs
all jumped up, trying to reach me.
I studied each one
but rejected one after the other for various reasons too big,
too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the
shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the
front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog
world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the
breed.
Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray.
His hip bones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his
eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they
beheld me
unwaveringly.
I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?" The
officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. "He's a funny
one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We
brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim
him. That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is
up tomorrow." He gestured
helplessly.
As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror.. "You
mean you're going to kill
him?"
"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have
room for every unclaimed
dog."
I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited
my decision. "I'll take him," I said. I drove home with the dog
on the front seat beside me.. When I reached the house I honked
the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad
shuffled onto the front porch... "Ta-da! Look what I got for
you, Dad !" I said
excitedly.
Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had
wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked
out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't
want it" Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the
house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles
and pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad
. He's
staying!"
Dad ignored me.. "Did you hear me, Dad ?" I screamed. At
those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his
sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring
at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled
free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in
front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his
paw..
Dad 's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw
Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited
patiently. Then Dad was on his knees hugging the
animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad
named the pointer Cheyenne . Together he and Cheyenne explored
the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes.
They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling
for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services
together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at is
feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three
years.. Dad 's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many
friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne 's
cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before
come into our bedroom at night.. I woke Dick, put on my robe and
ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene.
But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the
night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered
Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad 's bed. I wrapped his still form
in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a
favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help
he had given me in restoring Dad 's peace of
mind.
The morning of Dad 's funeral dawned overcast and dreary.
This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down
the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to
see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the
church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both
Dad and the dog who had changed his
life.
And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Do not neglect
to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have
entertained angels without knowing
it."
"I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he
said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle
that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had
just read the right article... Cheyenne 's unexpected appearance
at the animal shelter. . ..his calm acceptance and complete
devotion to my father. . and the proximity of their deaths. And
suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers
after
all.
Life is too short for drama or petty things, so laugh hard,
love truly and forgive quickly. Live While You Are Alive.
Forgive now those who made you cry. You might not get a second
time
God answers our prayers in His time........not
ours
My father sent this to me, i do not know where it came from It made me realize that I have a few people that I still need to tell them how much I love them..At some point I need to ask my family and God for forgiveness for some of the things I have done. I am afraid to do this. What if they do not want to forgive me. But even worse, what if I never even try...
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
God gave me another miracle today. A friend asked me to pick her up at the airport. DFW (Dallas-Fort Worth) I don't know the area well. I took the first exit and it turned out to be wrong. So instead of driving around I jumped out of the car and ran inside to ask for directions. They told me how the system works. I was just one exit away. We got there and I realized that when I jumped out of the car the toll ticket to the airport was under my leg and I had forgotten I put it there. I never do that, I always put it in the visor. I do not know why I did not tonight. Well, we got there early enough that I was able to drive back to the first terminal. Looking on the road to see if we could spot it. My friend yelled stop. Would you believe we found the ticket. There was a man in the car I had to pass to get to the ticket, he jumped out and asked if I needed some help, said he just happened to be a flight attendant, he said that when you lose those tickets it cost at lease 50.00 to get out of the airport. There again, God was watching out for me.
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