I despise splitting the bill when I go out to eat. I hate dividing things up and figuring out who pays what based on who had the club sandwich and who had the cheeseburger. Worse even than splitting the bill is separate checks. Why not just sit at separate tables while you’re at it? Or even separate restaurants? Tell you what, don’t call me, I’ll call you.
When I eat out, I don’t want to worry about how the bill is going to get paid. Such practicalities take away from the pleasure of the meal. I eat out as a way of socializing-- hell, eating is socializing for me. When I’m home alone, I don’t eat meals, I graze (case in point, my dinner tonight: Cheez Doodles and Pepperidge Farm cookies). There is joy in sharing a meal that should not be compromised by nitpicky details such as how the bill is going to be divided.
If I’m eating out with someone I like (and I try to avoid eating out with jerks, though there are rare occasions when I get stuck sitting across from someone I can’t stand), I will happily pay the tab and expect them to return the favor next time. I’d much rather pick up the bill than sit there trying to figure out who owes what. As I rarely have cash on me, I’m going to either have to ask the server for a seperate check or put the entire thing on my credit card and take cash from my friend, which seems wrong. Honestly, I’ve probably paid for more than fifty-percent of the meals I’ve eaten in restaurants and that is okay with me. If I like you, I’m more than willing to pay for your meal in exchange for the pleasure of your company.
I once had lunch with an acquaintance (who was on her way to at least being a casual friend) who pulled out a CALCULATOR in order to figure out her half of the bill. Now, keep in mind that we ordered the exact same entree, but she had water and a side salad and I had an iced tea. We split dessert. She still felt the need to use a calculator to tally the exact amount of her tab. This was not a pricey restaurant, it was Ruby Tuesday’s. We’re talking a difference of maybe two bucks in what we each owed, if that. I was horribly embarrassed. I spent time with her after this mortifying event, but I never went to a restaurant with her again.
The other thing about taking turns paying the bill is that it becomes a promise for a future meal spent together. I get it this time, you get it next time. If I like you enough to share a meal with you (excluding the aforementioned occasional jerk), I will want to see you again. If I ever offer to split the bill with you… well, don’t expect me to be calling any time soon. If you suggest splitting the bill, I may be slightly offended whether that’s your intention or not. Splitting the bill feels like you don’t like me and want to be done with me. That’s hardly a way to end a pleasant meal.
Oh, and the woman with the calculator? Despite her obsessive/compulsive need to make sure we each paid our fair share, she stuck me with the tax and only tipped ten-percent.
I was once a twenty-one year old boss. I had employees. I made schedules. I had a budget. I spent the company’s money. I dealt with angry, cursing morons-- all with a smile. I hired people. I fired people. I was young, I was naive and I was in charge. I took care of the people who worked for me because that’s what I thought a good boss should do. I figured I had nothing to lose by doing things my way and there was rarely anyone looking over my shoulder to tell me otherwise. My work ethic was less “if you have time to lean, you have time to clean” and more “get the work done, then goof off.”
My work ethic hasn’t changed much in fifteen years. I am not lazy so much as I am rebellious. I don’t like rules. I don’t deal well with authority, especially if the authority in question is an idiot. I don’t like policy and procedure manuals, I prefer to handle things on a case by case basis. I don’t like black and white, I prefer shades of gray and blue and purple. I don’t like being told what to do, nor do I like giving orders. I prefer a looser style of management. Smart employees know what to do and will get the job done. Dumb employees should be taken out back and smacked around. Simple.
I believe vacation days are for vacation and sick days are for whatever you want them to be. I think the best thing you can give an employee-- besides a hefty raise-- is respect and the acknowledgment of work well done, even if it’s the work they’re supposed to do. I believe in positive reinforcement and chocolate rewards; when a raise isn’t in the budget, I believe in commiseration and drinks on the house. I believe in fraternizing and getting to know the people who work for you. I believe everyone is entitled to have a bad day and everyone deserves a second, and even a third, chance. I believe most people want to do a good job most of the time. That should be enough for any boss.
I believe in looking out for your employees and giving them credit where credit is due-- and even when it isn’t. It’s no real hardship to let someone stand in the spotlight for a few minutes and it makes a world of difference in how they feel about themselves… and their job. I believe in staff meetings that include doughnuts and coffee. I believe in pizza parties on me because we’ve had a good, productive week. I believe in looking the other way when lunch stretches to an hour and a half once in awhile. I believe as long as ONE person is on time, everyone else can be a few minutes late occasionally. I don’t believe in evaluations, I believe in heart-to-hearts when the need arises. I believe work can-- and should-- be fun.
All of this just goes to show why I will never be a boss again. Not that I want to be-- the hours suck and, oddly enough, no one seems to think I should be in charge. Imagine that.
Things would be better if I ruled the world. Trust me.
Last week was one of those weeks. You know, one of those weeks. Craziness, a million things to do, staying up until 3 a.m. night after night, getting up before 10 a.m. (ack!). That sort of week. Last night I played hostess for a party (aka “Navy function") which involved cooking, baking, table setting, flower arranging and, because I run a small zoo out of my house, corralling the pets upstairs. Henry the WonderDog (aka “No Knees") went into the office, the cats went into my bedroom, Lola the crazy bird went into her cage. The fish, thankfully, do not harass guests as a rule, so they got to stay downstairs.
I left Jay in charge of gathering the pets and didn’t get a chance to check on the cats until I went to get dressed.
Begin Small Digression
When the invitation says 6:30, it MEANS 6:30, not 5:53. If you leave your house two hours early so you won’t get lost, PLEASE don’t come ringing my doorbell forty freakin’ minutes early. Go buy yourself a Slurpee or check out the neighbor’s giant inflatable snowman from Hell, but DO NOT show up at my house and expect me to greet you with a smile when I’ve been forced to get ready at the speed of light so as not to make YOU feel uncomfortable as you sit on my couch sipping your beer and looking at my half-finished party preparations.
End Small Digression
So, I go into my bedroom and the cats are doing their pitiful “we are so abused to be confined like this” meows and I’m taking a head count. One: Wilbur, the purr monster Siamese-looking old man cat; two: Annabelle, the gracefully aging princess calico with dainty paws and hunter instincts; three: Savannah, the baby brute tortoiseshell who terrorizes the other cats and is in love with the dog. They all stare expectantly at me from the bed and floor as I scan the room again and do another head count. One, two, three. Where’s four? Where’s Orville?
Then I remember. Orville died in July.
It’s funny how that happens, how I sometimes forget he’s not here any more, even after all these months. He was Wilbur’s brother and my baby cat, a cuddly tabby who would let you hold him and pet him for hours. Thirteen years old, blind and suffering from a thyroid condition that left him painfully thin, he’d find his way through the house to where ever I was, meowing loudly so that I’d respond and he could locate me. He died in my arms which I hope made it easier for him to go.
Having so many pets, you’d think I wouldn’t miss Orville so much five months after he died. The little guy is still in my heart and there are times when I feel his presence and I can almost convince myself he’s still here, sleeping on my pillow and begging for cheese. Which is why at the end of a hectic week, in the midst of doing the hostess thing, I found myself standing in my bedroom and crying because three wasn’t the right number of cats.
Speaking of Christmas, and what else would we be speaking about at this time of the year?, why is it so damn hard to find a nativity scene that’s right? I mean, c’mon people, we’re talking tradition here. The old-fashioned, Christian based tradition of the nativity. Why is that so complicated??
What am I talking about? I’m talking about a nativity scene that includes all the principles and isn’t made out of plastic, fabric or cork. I’m talking about Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus with faces (not faceless art deco blown glass in pastel colors). I’m talking about the three wise men (with camels) and Gloria, the angel. I’m talking about a stable that looks like a stable and not a shoebox, a trailer or a Barbie Dream House. I’m talking about animals that belong in a nativity: cows, oxen, sheep and donkeys. Maybe a cat, but certainly not dogs, and definitely not a lion (I kid you not, I’ve seen a nativity with a lion). It would be preferable if the baby Jesus were removable from the manger for those who wish to observe the tradition of leaving the baby Jesus out of the nativity until Christmas day (I personally don’t care, but it’s a nice touch). It would be good if Gloria hung from the front of the stable and even better if there were a lightbulb behind her to cast a ethereal glow.
The Fontanini family comes closest to getting right, but then they’ve been doing it for over a hundred years. They’re expensive, but it’s amazing what I’m willing to pay to have a baby Jesus who looks like a baby and not a Weeble.
I had the right kind of nativity when I was a kid, which is why I’m so picky. One of my favorite memories is setting up the nativity each year and hanging Gloria just so in front of the lightbulb. The stable had a straw-like roof, the wise men were appropriately ethnic (never mind that Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus were all peculiarly white) and everyone had a happy, reverential expression. I was slightly disappointed there wasn’t a little drummer boy, not realizing the song was written in 1958 (I just looked that up) and had nothing to do with the original nativity.
Keep your burnished metal nativities, your burlap doll nativities, your papier mache nativities. Give me an old-fashioned nativity scene and leave the lions, tigers and bears to Sigfried and Roy.
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