Incoherent Scribblings

Yesterday, I read an article in USA Today about the Iowa State Fair.

Being a native Iowan, I couldn’t help but remember all the times I visited the State Fair in the 23 years that I lived there. I don’t think I went every year, but I estimate that I went for at least one day no less than fifteen of those years. In fact, it wasn’t until I moved away from Iowa that I found out that not every state has an annual celebration like the Iowa State Fair. This year is special though because the Iowa State Fair is celebrating its sesquicentennial and after 150 years, it is “Still the One.”

Whether or you were born there or not, if you live in Iowa, it is almost certain that you will spend a mimimum of one day during ten days in August at the State Fair… usually the hottest and most humid days of the year. Not only is it a rite of passage, it is one of the three biggest events in Iowa throughout the year. (The other two are the State Basketball Tournament and the State Wrestling Tournament.)

Like many rural Iowa kids, when I was old enough (i.e. 9 years old) I joined 4-H and spent all year dreaming up projects that would not only receive a blue ribbon, but would be good enough to attain the honor of a place at the State Fair. Since my family didn’t raise livestock, my projects were of the home economics and visual art types. More than once during my six or seven year tenure in 4-H my projects went to the State Fair, and of course, I went along with them.

In those years I ate many bizarre foods on sticks, saw several butter sculptures, and attended numerous wood chopping contests. I remember the year the bungee jump was introduced to the Fair and betting amongst my friends who would be the first one crazy enough to try it. (Note: It was NOT me!) I saw Metallica at the State Fair and got both my tattoos there.

When I lived in Des Moines, I had friends who lived near the fairgrounds and every year they made a tidy profit charging people $5.00 to park in their yard. I remember the first year I was old enough to visit the beer tent, even though I don’t remember how I got home that night. I spent plenty of time in the Midway and more than one ex-boyfriend spent plenty of dough trying to win me a stuffed animal there.

Eventually each State Fair blends into another and the excitement you had as a kid wears off, but that doesn’t keep you from paying the admission fee each year and checking out the butter cow while eating fried cheese curds on a stick.

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Now Playing: “A Lap Dance is so Much Better when the Stripper is Cryin’ ” - The Bloodhound Gang

A while back I saw a preview for that documentary called “Super Size Me.” Honestly, I have no desire to see the movie, but from what I understand one of the rules of his little experiment was that when he was ordering his food, if someone asked him if he wanted to “Super Size” he had to say yes.

In a round-about way, that reminded me of something from my waitress days that we referred to as “up-selling.” I worked at Chain Restaurant ABC for about 2 1/2 years. When I began, I had to go through a training program and after you learned the basics of waiting tables, you had a session about “up-selling” as a way to maximize your tips (and the restaurant’s profits).

As I am sure the majority of my readers know, in America, waitresses/waiters (the politically correct term is “server,” but I always referred to myself as a waitress) essentially work for tips. I haven’t waited tables for almost 8 years, but in 1996 (God! has it really been that long?!), the hourly wage of a waitress was between $2.25 and $3.75. As you can plainly see, in order to make the job worth while, obviously a waitress wants tips. A good waitress (meaning you are willing to work hard and give good service) usually makes pretty good tips and can turn waiting tables into a fairly profitable job.

Theoretically, a tip is 15% of the total amount of the diner’s bill, therefore (so the thinking goes), the higher the bill, the higher the tip. This is where “up-selling” comes into play. The idea is to add to the diner’s bill in a rather indistinguishable way. For example, the customer orders a Margarita that is (forgive the 1996 prices) $3.50. The margarita is made with “bar” tequila (aka the cheap, generic brand). The waitress who is practicing “up-selling,” asks if you want a particular kind of tequila in the margarita. You say, “Cuervo Gold.” KA-CHING! That is premium liquor and now your $3.50 margarita is $4.25! All throughout your meal you are asked these questions: Do you want fries with that? How about a side of ranch dressing? Maybe dessert? Ka-ching! KA-ching! KA-CHING! All those little extras add up and without thinking about it, the customer gives a 15% tip on a bill that ended up being $36 instead of the $30 it could have been.

Even though I was a successful waitress, I was never comfortable with the practice of “up-selling.” I wasn’t afraid of working hard and even when I had a long night I could serve a table with a smile on my face and take home generous tips. I thought, and still think, “up-selling” is a not only a sneaky practice, but extremely pushy. I don’t like pushy people and didn’t want to be a pushy waitress. When I was a trainer, I would tell my trainees about “up-selling” and leave it up to them whether or not they wanted to do it.

Essentially, “Super or King Sizing” a fast food meal is a form of “up-selling.” Of course in such a “restaurant,” there is no waitress putting herself through college to benefit, only the corporation. So next time you think about super-sizing your Big Mac meal, remember they don’t care about your super-sized waist, only your incredibly shrinking pocket book.

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Now playing: “I’m Going Slightly Mad” - Queen

How many of my readers realize that today is the second Friday the 13^th of the year? I did only because I wrote a lengthy entry on Friday the 13^th back in February. As a bit of déja vu, I thought that instead of writing a new entry on the subject today I would just re-post my February entry:

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What is it about Friday the 13^th that makes the fear of it, or Praskevidekatriaphobia, such a widespread superstition? Surveys show that over 20 million people in America alone admit that they are at least a little apprehensive on Friday the 13^th.

Nobody really knows the origins of Friday the 13^th. In fact, no one has been able to document the existence of such beliefs prior to the 19^th century. However two separate strands of folklore concerning the unluckiness of the number thirteen (13) and the unluckiness of Fridays may have converged to make Friday the 13^th the unluckiest day of all.

The Number Thirteen (13)

No one understands why human beings first associated the number 13 with misfortune, but the belief is assumed to be ancient and there are many theories claiming that its origins extend beyond antiquity. However, all ancient civilizations weren’t unanimous in their dread of 13. The Chinese and ancient Egyptians regarded the number as lucky.

Some sources propose that 13 was intentionally vilified by the founders of patriarchal religions because it symbolized femininity. In many goddess-worshipping cultures, 13 was honored since it corresponded to the number of lunar cycles in a year.

Friday and the Christians

For some, Friday’s bad reputation originates in the Bible. Supposedly, when Eve tempted Adam with the forbidden fruit it was Friday. Tradition also indicates that the Great Flood began and the Temple of Solomon was destroyed on a Friday. And of course, Friday was the day of the week on which Christ was crucified.

Friday was execution day in pagan Rome, but in other pre-Christian cultures it was the Sabbath and the pre-Christian Teutonics considered Friday to be quite lucky. Of course, these pagan associations were not lost on the early Church, which went to great lengths to suppress them and eventually Fridays were associated with the Witches’ Sabbath.

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So there you have it, the some background information about the number thirteen and Fridays. However, as you may have guessed, the complex folklore of Friday the 13^th doesn’t have much to do with people’s fears today.

“The fear has much more to do with personal experience. People learn at a young age that Friday the 13^th is supposed to be unlucky, for whatever reason, and then they look for evidence that the legend is true. The evidence isn’t hard to come by, of course. If you get in a car wreck on one Friday the 13^th, lose your wallet, or even spill your coffee, that day will probably stay with you. But if you think about it, bad things, big and small, happen all the time. If you’re looking for bad luck on Friday the 13^th, you’ll probably find it.”

– click here for the site from which I lifted this quote.

Happy Friday the 13^th everyone!

Recently we bought a fondue pot. Tonight I tried it out.

Our dinner menu: French-style bread from the local bakery dipped in a smoothly melted combination of Emmentaler and Greyerzer (Gruyere) from Switzerland complimented by a charming Riesling from the Rhine Valley. My description sounds so good I want to have it again!

Maybe I should look into writing restaurant menu descriptions for a living…

This has got to be the best news story I have read in a while. Of course the story details the concerns of the flight crew and the inconvenience to the passengers, but being the crazy cat lady that I am, I sympathized with the poor kitty and his owner.

Air travel with pets is a very stressful ordeal for all involved. I know this first-hand because when we moved to Germany from the US, we brought my three cats with us. The rule of thumb for animals in the cabin is one person, one animal and the number of animals on a flight is limited. Since A. and I were only two, we had a choice: We could each bring a cat in a soft carrier and the other could ride in the luggage compartment, or all three could ride in the luggage compartment. I wasn’t too happy with either choice, but since I felt I should be fair to my cats, I chose to have all three ride in the luggage compartment.

We flew from Portland, Oregon to Detroit, had about a two hour layover and then flew from Detroit to Frankfurt. All together, about a 12 hour flight and a 36 hour day. I am usually pretty laid back, but I had never been so stressed out in my entire life!

In Portland, I stayed with them until the last possible second and strongly warned anyone that was part of the Northwest Airlines family that they would face my wrath if anything happened to my highly valuable cats. (They are priceless to me, and besides, with all the money I had to invest to get them ready to go, I felt that I had a right to tell everyone they were valuable!)

In Detroit, I stood in the lobby with my nose glued to the window as I watched the baggage handlers load my cats into the luggage compartment. I had marked their carriers with highly visible “Live Animal” signs and florescent tape specifically for that purpose.

Every 15 minutes from Detroit to Frankfurt, I whined and cried on A.’s shoulder that I hoped they wouldn’t be too traumatized, while he reassured me they were OK. I wasn’t so sure: I had read horror stories of how badly animals were treated in the luggage compartments and others of how animals disappeared in transit. I was a nervous wreck until I saw them in Frankfurt, where all three greeted me with highly pissed-off looks on their faces. But to me at that moment, they had never looked so sweet and adorable.

Yet, I must give Northwest Airlines credit. On each plane, before it took off, I was given a special “Pet Passport” that verified that the pilot knew that my cats were aboard and that they had made it safely into the luggage compartment. However, it is an ordeal that I am not anxious to repeat and my advice to anyone who is considering flying with their pets is: Don’t do it unless it is absolutely necessary. It is much less stressful for all involved.

On a final note, I want to reassure everyone that my cats came through their first Trans-Atlantic flight without being too traumatized (even Harley, who was at the time only about 8 months old) …Even though they do still mysteriously disappear every time they see the kitty carriers!