To Tip or not to Tip, That is the Question.

I know the Noid isn't relevant, but...

I pushed open the door of the Domino's Pizza joint just nanoseconds behind a disheveled guy who failed to hold the door open for me--even as (though) he acknowledged my existence with a head nod seconds earlier in the parking lot. Thanks buddy.

Oh well, I was having a good day. Just two hours earlier, I arrived home from four days of camping--and not just your run-of-the mill campsite camping, but out of cell-phone, wi-fi and electronic device service camping with dirt, hiking, lakes, fishing, campfire cooking, and more dirt.  I love camping. I love the post-camping shower almost as much. I felt refreshed on so many levels.

It's good to get away. But now I was looking forward to a fresh hot pizza.  After camping, anything hot (other than a hot dog) sounds good; Domino's is fortunate that they are right down the road from me.

I was tired, and contemplated delivery, but then there's the delivery fee and tipping, and it isn't worth it when the pizzeria (Domino's doesn't qualify for that moniker, does it?) is right down the road.

So when I stepped up to the register, I was perplexed (as I always am) when the little "tip" line was on my receipt.  For pickup?  The employee literally turned around, grabbed my pizza, hit three buttons and swiped my card. Less than 30 seconds? It's almost worth carrying cash around for these type situations.

I stared at that blank line on my receipt before signing. The cashier, capitalizing on my moral quandary hesitation, added, "How's your day going?"

Usually I'd reply like it was my mother asking me about my day at school, "Good." But this time, for some reason, maybe it was the being refreshed and not yet anti-societal, I replied...

"You know, I'm good. Just got back from camping up in the mountains with no amenities; my wife already unpacked the whole car; and my shower was amazing."

I don't know why I was oversharing with a stranger, but, sensibly, I stopped myself short of telling him that I exfoliated with my wife's Dove body wash, and even used one of those girly bathroom Brillo pad/sponge things that administer soap in an endless supply.  (I thought about making this whole post on just that 20 minute shower, but I really don't want people associating me with nudity).

Never-nudes: There should be more.  Way more.  

Suddenly I realized that Mr. Domino's cashier and I just shared a human experience. Was his simple salutation worthy of a tip?  Damn you buddy for making this pizza transaction more complicated than it had to be!  I just wanted a $7.99 deep dish pizza, and you had to turn this into a relationship?  I don't have room for anymore twenty-something dudes on my friend's list.  I already have former students as Facebook friends and I don't even understand their Generation Y quirks.

My password is Creed-fan4life.  Oh crap, it doesn't work.  

A dollar. Is that good enough? What percentage is that? Like 13%? To earn this in an actual restaurant one would have to offer coordinating wines and pronounce the house specials with fancy French names like Velouté sauce in an uppity way.  Is Domino's even a restaurant? This one doesn't even have a table...I can't sit even if I wanted to...Isn't this the fast-food of pizza places?

Why is tipping so hard?  Why does this guy get a tip, and the gas attendant who washed my window(without asking), doesn't?  Why not the super-friendly cashier at Trader Joe's who actually knows my name, recommends what's good (and not good) and bags my groceries with care?  Why is it only people in the service industry (and not people who actually practice quality customer service) that get tips? Why are we forced to play by these unwritten laws that say giving 15% extra isn't even generous, but dare I say, cheap?

Years ago, my wife and I (we notoriously receive bad service--I blame the fact that I almost always wear a ballcap) thought about inventing a tip-o' meter. You place it right at the edge of the table so that the waiter always knows the score.  It starts at 15% and goes up or down dependent on how good or bad the service is. 10 minute wait before asking for drinks? Down to 12%.  Happily refilling my ginger ale, even after the fourth time? Up to 18%.  Being genuinely nice and personable without being annoying? 20%.

I guess they have an app now.  Stupid apps.  

But the tip-o' meter doesn't rectify the inequality for those who receive and those who can't receive the extra gratuity. Tipping should be a generous offering based on quality customer service, not an expected additional cost (especially in Oregon where minimum wage is $8.95).  Some of these waiters are making more than I am as a teacher. Some deserve every penny they get. Others, well...I'm sorry...if I can see you checking your text messages instead of bringing me my meal, I think the only tip you deserve is me giving you this advice: "get a different job."

Maybe I just don't understand the social ineptitude of the generation below me which makes up the majority of these type jobs now. They seems to get nervous when they go off-script. They seem to have trouble finding words and/or solutions when something goes wrong. Customer service, and earning a tip, should go to the person who is proactive in making my experience first-rate, not an expectation based on social norms.

And businesses: Please eliminate the tip line from receipts when no service is offered. I can be generous, but I shouldn't be put in a moral mess (crisis?) because an employee treated me like a human being. (I worked eight years in customer service, breaking my back for certain customers, and in all eight years, I received a total of three tips...all because my industries weren't considered "tippable" jobs).  I'm not bitter.  I enjoyed giving great customer service.  I like to help. I just want to understand why we tip who we do, and why it is expected even when the service given is second rate.

That's just my two cents on the subject (which coincidentally is a tipping insult). Maybe you can offer a tip on this theme (or how I can eliminate all the parenthesis from my writing)?

Aging Forces Sufferer of Public-Restroom Phobia To Conquer Fears

I am damaged goods. I have two mortal fears: one is heights, which I can pinpoint to a scene on network television as a five year old child that forever terrified me of all elevated places.  Ricky Schroder's realistic dramatic performance after his parents careen off a cliff in The Earthling, guaranteed two things for me: I will never own an RV; and I don't do burnouts on cliff side roads.

Years later, my brother Corey was well aware of my phobia, and made light of it by yelling, "Oh my gosh, Chris, the back tires just went off the road," anytime we were on the Oregon Coast Highway, or any logging road without guard rails.

                   The scene from 2:00 - 4:00 destroyed my world.  

"Well, kids, this is the end of the road, I'll just have
to drive in reverse all the way back."  

My father had the 1980s equivalent of a GPS system of logging road maps memorized in his head (he never once consulted the huge Rand McNally Road Atlas), instead Dad would turn from one narrow unkept road to the next until we got to some idyllic paradise, as if driven by some transcendental hippie sense. The elevated scenery would be unknown to me, as I spent these car trips in the back cargo section of the station wagon with a blanket over my head, refusing to see the thousands of feet below that we could fall victim to.  Corey, however, consistently reminded me how close to vehicular death we were at all times, like a play-by-play radio announcer.  

My fear of heights is managed now. I can drive my own family on some of these same roads, and even remove the blanket, from time to time, to see where I'm actually driving.  

My other fear? Public bathrooms.

While washing my hands at a local Arby's, a guy
proceeded to use this urinal right next to me
even though there were two stalls behind us.  Great
planning Arby's.

This restroom fear is two-diminsional.  One part, obviously, is germs.  This can probably be attributed to a dream I once had while camping.  I dreamt that I fell into the campground outhouse holding tank, and had to swim in muck for hours before someone came in and "occupied" the toilet (blocking my only source of light), and didn't hear my screams for help.  This unconscious fear also stemmed from the fact that I was a tiny 5-year-old. Those toilet holes were easily large enough to let a grown adult fall through. I had to use most of my strength to keep balanced on those old toilet seats leading to Dante's cesspool hell.

The other aspect of my fear is that I hate social get-togethers in the bathroom.  While girls might rush off to the latrine in groups, I never want to encounter another human in the restroom, especially my friends. I will walk out if more than two of the three urinals are occupied (man code dictates that the middle urinal is not to be used).

I'm guessing my hatred of awkward bathroom scenarios comes from the group showers my 7th grade PE class was required to take. 7th grade is an awful year to force boys to shower together.  Bodies are changing at different speeds, and while nobody wanted to "look" at anyone else; everyone knew who was more of a "man" than others. Cruelty was rampant. And our PE teacher was a creeper. He was so tired of boys "skipping" their after class shower, that he forced us to line up naked, take a towel from his hand right before the shower, then find one of the ten shower heads and wash our developing body stink off. I hated him. I still do.

I hate being objectified by women while peeing.  

So for about fifteen years. I avoided public bathrooms. My bladder was already resilient from long car vacations, I just trained it to last an eight hour day. The bathroom at my home became my haven. I used the restroom at my high school maybe three times.

During the seven years I worked at Sears, I used the store restroom maybe ten times.

Still, at random outings, where my home was not an option anytime soon, nature could sometimes call. It's not like I was unable to use a public restroom; I just strongly hated the idea of it. Now, as an aging man, public restrooms have become a necessary evil. I can still wait six hours. But an eight hour shift? Not anymore. Especially if I drink coffee.

It's always a Yankee fan.  

Yet every time I do venture into the white porcelain abyss to take care of business, some whack-job walks in right after me and uses the urinal right next to me.  Did he just check out my area?  Was that his overspray that just hit my arm?  Why is this guy right next to me, when there are three other urinals?  

I have developed escape plans in case of bathroom rapists. I've had to kill off at least seven assassins in the restroom in my weird delusions.  I like to think I'm Jason Bourne, eliminating anyone who doesn't know public restroom protocol.

Because there are the guys who like to have conversations in the restroom.  Look, buddy, I don't give a crap about your day, or the weather, or how the Yankees are doing. I came in here to do my business, not to get involved in yours. Actually, you know what? How would you like a knee to the kidney?

So since I'm obviously mentally handicapped (considering I have violent fantasies) in this arena, here's my list of accommodations that American businesses should keep in mind.

• All urinals should have a divider between them.  Keeps young, and/or inquisitive eyes away from packages that aren't theirs, and keeps overspray to a minimum.  
• Make all doors have automatic opening devices.  Why make the toilet flush itself, the water turn on without a lever, the soap dispense by a wave of the hand, the towel descend by motion, and then have us all touch the same exact handle on the way out? 
• Have robots slap conversationalists. We live in an anti-social world, so why start talking in the latrine?  
• Mood music and Fabreeze dispenses on toilet seat contact. I don't go #2 in public, so listening to someone else's bowels play their version of the 1812 Overture is an insult to random noises everywhere. Nobody likes Muzak, but I think this is where it rightfully and purposefully belongs.
• Photograph the toilet destroyers.  Remember the robot slapper?  Its also equipped with a camera.  It photographs every person using the stalls. That four hundred pound guy who secretes grease and uses the stall as his personal laxative station?  His stall destruction will now be posted to his facebook page with before and after usage images.  (My wife asked what I was talking about...apparently girls never encounter the stall that experienced explosive stool syndrome...must be a guy thing).  

People are always talking about how we only have one world, and to protect our rivers, streams, and parks. Yes. Good ideas. But it's pretty hard to do this when much of the populace isn't even potty trained yet.

Get Fatter and Funnier for 2013!

Not only does this guy
exemplify the princely
ideal, he is also one cool
cat.  Britannia be proud

I don't make New Year's resolutions, but one of my lifelong goals is to improve my character to the point that I will be on par with Abraham Lincoln, Mahatma Gandhi, and Neville Longbottom.  Being the honest self-analyzer that I am, I am no where near their platform of unadulterated goodness.  I think I would put myself somewhere between Prince Charles and Katniss Everdeen, beings that I'm kind of a good person, with a lot of grey areas surrounding me.  A 6 on a scale of 10 in goodness; at least I haven't had to shoot anyone with an arrow for sport, or have an affair with Camilla; yet.

Many philosophers, like Aristotle, Plato, and Karl Marx have debated what makes up good moral character, and most agree that integrity, courage, fortitude, honesty, loyalty, and good behavior (or lack of bad habits) are the basics to good people. Those are good starting points.  But I too, took a philosophy course in community college, which makes me a sort of expert, so I will add my 2 cents as to the path of greatness.

My current theory?  Get funnier.

Humor, laughing, being funny, are all important traits to humans.  It consistently is the the top trait desired for future relationships. Some people think if they aren't funny they can't become funny. Hogwash.  My solution?  Get fatter.  Yes, contrary to every other New Years resolutions out there right now, one common attribute of funny people is their overabundance of weight, so start packing on the pounds.  Why?  I think because fat people don't take themselves too seriously.  Fat people can't.  We are always the butt of your insults, so eventually we take it upon ourselves to become self-depricating, and/or creatively invent ways to avoid your mockery and/or fist punches.  In essence, we develop the ability to outwit you or beat you to the punch.

Keith Stone:  What frat boys and
cool kids look like at age 30.  

Skinny people aren't as funny because of their vanity. It's hard to be funny when wearing uncomfortable size 28" (or size 1 for women) designer jeans. Skinny people do sometimes think of funny things to say, but are too concerned about not getting laughs to say them out loud. What if they look my way, and say, hmmm...normally Steve doesn't say anything and just looks pretty on the wall...but now he said something dumb...verdict? Steve is a dumb blond.   Other pretty people think of funny things to say, but are replaced by more urgent needs like flipping their hair or adjusting their socks.

Gwyneth Paltrow felt humiliated and like
no man looked at her with physical desire
when she wore a fat suit for Shallow Hal.
Wow...shocking news to fat people every-
where.  

But fat people don't think this way. Nobody looks our way.  Not if they don't have to.  So we force them to look our way. Our bodies might be bigger, but so are our brains.  That creativity forged from the Mordor of your middle school mockery, now gives us a weapon of great power.  The ability to not be invisible.  So we say things that are inappropriate in middle school, that earn us detentions.  The cool kids look around, and wait for somebody to say that thing that nobody has the guts to say, but the fat kid will say it.  Like when the teacher bends over and reveals his bad taste in undergarments, "Mr. Genowalk wears women's panties!" The street cred is worth every bit of that saturday school.  

Of course, this developing humor doesn't get fat kids invited to parties.  The cool kids look around and say, "You know, Chris, the chunky kid in fourth period, isn't so bad. His Gotcha shirts and Quicksilver shorts are from two years ago, so we can't include him in our group, but lets not socially alienate him anymore."  These type conversations somehow happen telepathically and unconsciously in the minds of cool kids, and are never really verbalized.  But it happens...at every school.

By late high school, the funny fat kid is suddenly involved in everything. His jokes, despite their impolite punchlines, now have the teacher snickering.  He gets dates that make skinny vain-people befuddled. "How did Piggy get a date with Karissa?  She's totally out of his league?"

Well news flash, cool kids:  Piggy is actually fun to be around (provided you haven't dropped a rock on his head yet).  He makes people feel good, always has something to say, and knows how to listen.  He isn't so concerned with his appearance that he just stands around at dances...he actually dances and  LIVES.  So while you were paying nerds to write your essays, and mindlessly staring at the wall during class debates, and spending your weekends and your spending money trying on the newest clothing at American Eagle Outfitters... Fatty actually learned some stuff and can afford a girlfriend.

Will Farrell isn't necessarily fat, just out of shape.  With a
cool skin fold from a surgery for Pyloric Stenosis.  

By college, the funny fat kid is legendary.  He is John Belushi in Animal House.  Will Farrell in Old School.  He has perfected the method of making uncomfortable situations comfortable.  Whether it is by spitting out food simulating a zit, or going streaking by himself, he no longer cares what others think about him, and that is the ultimate victory of humor.

Self esteem.  While everyone is desperately seeking it by spending on accessories to help beautify, and plucking stray hairs, and puking unneeded calories, and putting down others because of undiagnosed mental disorders, fat people are enjoying life without the need for your approval.

Somehow, from all the mockery or self reflection in detention rooms or information learned from textbooks, the fat kid has learned that he is okay, a cool customer. And being happy with who you are, despite your short comings (or largesse), is a huge step towards developing character.

Fat, bald, and glasses?
The tri-fecta of funny =
Comedian Brain Posehn

Now some of you out there are saying, "but I'm not willing to face the health consequences of adding fifty pounds and experiencing newfound social ostracizing for the next ten years." And that's understandable.  Well, other things are funny. Like baldness. And neuroticism. And insanity. Just pick your poison.

Additionally,  if I find a way to ever lose these extra forty pounds, I will be skinny and have the character learned from a lifetime of fatness, which will catapult me towards my aforementioned skinny heros like Honest Abe. Whose laughing now, cool kids?

Why Being Fat is the Worst Sin of All.

Recently, a trip to a new doctor confirmed what I had been suspecting.  I am fat.  My blunt Indo-American doctor was very clear about this fact.  In his zeal to “heal” me, he used about every clinical term, frowny face, and over-exaggerated notation to “inform” me about this physical malady that I had been cleverly concealing.   Unlike my Nintendo Wii Fit, though, he failed to go so far as calling me “obese.”  Thankfully, I have thick skin (a nice byproduct of fat), and this isn’t even the thousandth time I’ve had to deal with insulting comments. 

My friends in high school used to call me “chunks,” cause they all had the luck of possessing body altering tape worms.  I get called, “big guy,” by people thinking it’s a playful moniker.  When playing sports I get told I am “misleadingly fast.”  I withhold the urge to tell them they are “deceptively nice,” or “ambiguously intelligent,” and it’s not even hard.  Being insulted for weight is a part of every fat person’s DNA.  And most of us aren’t even that fat. 

I dare you to call Gerard Benderoth, the "White Rhino" fat, when not competing for the world's strongest man.  

            

          Fatness, or obesity, is the one thing we as Americans can still mock in open air without the fear of political correctness.  Politicians have waged war on obesity, and it’s probably about time, as we Americans do have a problem with weight.  Skinny people, especially, have a problem with all us plus sized creatures, as if we are a plague on earth, ready to eat them at first signs of a fatty-food famine.  We, the immoral fat people, would run roughshod throughout the earth gorging ourselves on whatever leftover food was in people’s kitchens. Mississippi is over 33% obese, and as everyone knows, Mississippi, is the worst state in the Union.  So using that logic, fat people are the worst American’s alive. 

           
            As if we didn’t already know. 

Please sir, may I not have any more.  

I have one vice: food.  I was born with over-stimulated taste buds.  Where some people find flavor in Mueslix cereal, I taste earth.  Those same people who effortlessly gave up deep fried food, and curse corn syrup, I willingly ate their portions.  Where'd the last slice of pizza go?  Oh, I ate it.   And I liked it.  Or at least I used to.  I’m ready to change.  I admit I have a problem.  I’m a horrible person.  You all judged correctly.  I've been pushing my weight around, and destroying this nation with my sick longing for flavor and fullness.  

Wow, were you writing my life
history in that paragraph?

I wish I had simply started heroin instead of eating DiGiorno pizzas.  I could conceal my track marks so much better than my extra twenty pounds.  I might’ve robbed you to get my next hit, but if that’s the price we pay to only see beauty (heroin addicts are beautiful people), so be it.   I wish I had become a sex addict, instead.  Diseased, but experienced, I could say.  The ladies would love my body one day, and curse me years later when dealing with my offspring that I had no intention of raising.  Or cigarettes, as they have survived the media onslaught of the 80s/90s and become almost okay again.  I’d only smoke outside, never in anyone’s way.  A victimless crime.  Or even better, just get stoned.  Blaze out my mind, and make philosophical statements that nobody cared about.  I could drink heavily, wreck my liver, and fall out of graces with my family over the belligerence I said while intoxicated.  But no.  I choose food.  I choose fat.  I choose wrongly.  According to everyone. 

It doesn’t matter to my doctor that I didn’t check any of those other vice boxes.  He has to save my life, or at least extend it until my seventies.  He has no time to praise me for my otherwise clean living life.  I ate ice cream, so I am going to die.  It doesn’t matter that I sat in the waiting room with a patient who’s face showed obvious signs of methamphetamine use, cause I choose wrongly, I decided to stuff 2800 calories a day into my body instead of hypodermic needles with brain altering chemicals. 

Next to fat people, nobody parties like old people.  So
Hip Hop Hooray, Ho, Hey, BINGO!!  

And sadly, they are all right.  Heart disease kills earlier than almost any other vice.  I--we--as Americans need to get in shape.  The sad thing is, is I’ve hung around a lot of types of people.  Stoners, addicts, sex crazed frat boys, workaholics, intellectuals, and they all have their issues.  But fat people, by and large, are good people, and the conversation is always fun, the events entertaining, and the dining; exquisite. 

It’s hard to water down my diet.  It’s hard to change my routines.  It’s hard to give up things I crave.  It’s hard to change one’s DNA.  But maybe instead of praising people as they drop the pounds necessary to live a longer life, maybe we should praise them for all the characteristics that always made their existence so interesting in the first place.  So to all the fat people out there desperately trying to lose weight, I hope we can laugh, and talk, and enjoy each other’s company just as much around a table full of Hummus, as we did at Applebee’s. 

*Intellectual Health Guru: “Actually, Hummus is composed of 46% polyunsaturated fat; you’d be better off…”

         
           *Me: “Shut up, nobody invited you to my dinner party.”