Before I had children, I was working as a flight attendant and had a remarkable amount of free time on my hands. Not to brag, but sometimes I might only fly 13 days a month, which left me with 17 days off to do whatever I wanted.
I started to paint ceramics as a fun little hobby. I had grand plans to paint bowls and picture frames and trays and vases. The trouble was, even though I thought I was a good painter, I was not a good painter.
I would spend hours on my “creations” only to have my then-boyfriend (now-husband) comment, “Is that green thing supposed to be a skyscraper or a tree?”
“It’s a cat,” I would correct him, “anyone can see it’s a cat.”
“Don’t quit United,” he would say under-his-breath, while I would think: That’s it! I am so not painting you a new car-themed tissue box holder now!
The lucky recipients of my painting treasures just marveled at the sheer volume I managed to produce. “Did you paint this dolphin figurine on a layover?” my sister, Oakley, would ask innocently after she finished unwrapping her birthday gift.
“No, no, I did it on my days off.” I would beam at her as she set the dolphin on the shelf next to the red and green tea kettle and matching Santa teacups I painted her for Christmas and the florescent jack-o’-lantern I painted her for Halloween and the ceramic “basket” I painted her for Easter.
“When do you fly? Do you ever fly?”
The Husband was beginning to wonder this himself. “Sweetie, is today the day you go to Boston?”
“Nope, I’m off until next Wednesday, so I think I might go paint something today. Do you need some Fourth of July candlesticks?”
Finally, I woke up one morning and got smart: I could get a part-time job at the ceramic studio when I wasn't flying and they would pay me to paint! Or at least give me a 10% discount.
I walked into a new local shop that had recently opened in our neighborhood. A young woman wearing faded jeans, an oversized Def Leppard t-shirt, and a tattered black baseball hat was painting a detailed circus scene on the side of pitcher. A seal was lifting a ball on its nose, while smiling elephants lined up with pink dancers cavorting around them; the colors were bright and eye-catching. It looked exactly like an ad campaign for Ringling Brothers; I was suddenly overcome with an irrationally strong craving for buttered popcorn and cotton candy.
The lady glanced up at me, “May I help you?”
“Hi!” I began overenthusiastically, in case she happened to be the owner or the manager of the shop. “My name is MOV, and I’m interested in working here!”
She looked me up and down. I was wearing my best navy blue interview suit, complete with pearls, black patent pumps, and nude opaque panty hose. My hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and I had a navy and white abstract print silk scarf tied neatly around my neck. I was ready to paint a platter, or at least serve some peanuts and evacuate an airplane.
“Uh, do you have any painting experience?” she began warily.
“Sure! Lots!” I responded eagerly. I handed her my single-spaced resume on linen paper, and a list of twenty references. I was clutching a mug I’d brought in to show her.
“Here’s one of a sample best of favorite my painting work for see you look at!” I said gleefully, tongue-tied as a foreign exchange student on his first day in America. I shoved the mug at her, waiting for the accolades to begin.
She gingerly took the mug out of my hand. It was a mug I had spent several hours on—my masterpiece: a swirl of yellow stars in a cloudy blue night sky. On the handle of the mug in thick loopy black letters it read, “MOV’s Hot Chocolate.”
She inspected the mug closely, flipped it over, set it on the counter, then laughed out loud. She pointed to the patches of white that were supposed to depict clouds. “We can show you how to fix that,” she said dismissively. “So, anyway, the owner’s name is Patty, and she’ll be in later today. You seem cheery, and I know she’ll like that, but as for the mug … uh, you might not want to show her that.”
Fast forward a week and the job was mine. Patty was a terrific (if absentee) boss, and the circus-painting Brittany was my new manager and ended up becoming a close friend. The discount was better than 10% off, it was 75% off. My previous hobby morphed into a full-blown obsession.
I gradually got better and better at painting, and now I cringe when I see remnants of my so-called painting prowess from the era before I worked in the shop. I visit my dad and he serves cheese and crackers on one of my plates. “Ack!” I scream out in embarrassment, “Please throw that plate away.”
“What?” he says, shocked, “I love it. You painted it for me, remember?”
“But I am such a better painter now. Let me paint you a new one.”
“No. I like this one,” he insists. Then, pointing at the detail around the edge, he adds, “Just look at these cute camels.”
“Those are flowers,” I murmur, “but they do sort of look like camels now that you mention it.”
MOV
(“Masterpieces Of Value”)
Showing posts with label paint your own pottery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label paint your own pottery. Show all posts
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
391. Tipsy
I’ve always been confused about tipping. A dollar? 20%? Nothing? A five? Who knows. Entire libraries of books have been devoted to this very topic, and yet, even after reading all of them, I still have trouble getting it right.
I know I’m not the only one. One summer when I was in college, I hostessed at an elegant restaurant located on a lovely strip of beach in California. It was the type of place where men were expected to don a jacket and tie, and ladies felt compelled to wear lipstick, brand new stilettos, and outfits that most likely equated to a month’s rent for me. The dining room typically ran a wait of about two hours if you didn’t have the foresight to book a reservation eight weeks in advance.
Since I was the hostess, I was obviously the gatekeeper. If you tipped me $100, that pesky two hour wait evaporated into mere seconds while I quickly shuffled some papers around to miraculously find your “misplaced” reservation. I had your table for you, and that table was front and center on the window with the best view of surfers riding those movie-caliber waves.
Once, someone tried to tip me a dollar. One dollar. I glanced at the faded bill (which appeared to have gone through the dryer on the highest setting), looked at the gentleman, and politely gave the sad dollar back, saying, “Oh, thank you, sir, but we’re not allowed to accept tips.” Instead, he and his date waited patiently in the bar for the full two hours, and judging by his drunken demeanor when I finally awarded them their table, he had probably drunk $100 worth of alcohol while he waited. Perhaps that money would’ve been better spent on my tip.
I’m not saying that $100 was an appropriate tip for an 18-year-old hostess. It was excessive. I probably would’ve found him a very nice table for the bargain basement price of $50, maybe even $20. But $5? No. $10? Hope you enjoy sitting next to the restroom or busing station.
It’s easy enough to figure out the tip for the waitress when you’re at a restaurant and the bill comes to $50: good service merits 20%. But what if it’s a casual café where you order at the counter and then the girl brings it to you? In that case, 20% seems too high (and would I just leave the tip on the table? and if so, then isn’t a different person than the girl who took my order getting the money?).
What about hairdressers who charge $200? Is 20% okay? Is it too high? What if the person who does your hair is the owner of the shop? I’ve read that in that case, you should not tip. But I would feel embarrassed not to tip for fear of offending him.
And Starbucks? Should I put a dollar in the tip jar for the clerk when my drink cost $3.85? We had an interaction that was approximately 30 seconds long, and he's not even the one making my extra-hot grande triple latte with no foam.
I used to work at a paint-your-own pottery place. I would work a child's birthday party and instruct 24 rambunctious five-year-olds on how to paint a ceramic giraffe or unicorn. Then, I would paint the kids' initials on the pieces and glaze them while the rowdy wannabe Picassos bounced impatiently around the fragile shop. Next, I would help the parents serve pizza and cake, and distribute goody bags. Finally, I would clean everything up. These birthday parties usually lasted two hours and cost $300. And my normal tip for entertaining and instructing these little people I would never see again? Zero.
That's right, the Starbucks cashier gets a dollar (or two!) for a time commitment of 30 seconds (Hello, may I take your order?) while I amuse two dozen kindergartners for two long hours for no tip, not even a piece of overly-sweet cake.
Apparently I am not the only one confused about tipping.
Thank goodness I don’t live in New York, the capital of Tipping Wrong. Every time I go there, I get a complex within minutes of stepping off the plane. Everyone seems to have their hand out, and that hand is expecting crisp green dollars in double-digit denominations. The taxi driver who maneuvered you uptown through heavy traffic. The bell boy who carried your one small suitcase (but that you felt weird about saying No, I can carry it myself). The front desk clerk who just upgraded you to a suite with no extra charge. The concierge who scored you last-minute tickets to the theater. Everyone is waiting, and they are waiting for your tip, your gratitude, your mouth to open and the words pour out, “Thank you,” while you slip your hand quickly in your pocket and produce multiple pictures of a smiling Andrew Jackson.
You, yourself, however, are not smiling. You are worried you tipped too much. The bell boy practically does a back handspring when you hand him a ten, and you realize a five would’ve sufficed. The angry glare the doorman gives you tells you that maybe you should have upgraded that one dollar bill to a five when he hailed you a cab.
One day I woke up and realized I couldn’t handle it anymore. I am a bad tipper, I am an overly-generous tipper, I am a non-tipper. My life is one big swirl of dollar bills and they are all the wrong size.
I found an easy way out, a solution so I never have to tip again, ever: I got married. Now, The Husband is in charge of tipping while I gather up our two sons and all their accoutrements and head to the car, turning to The Husband and saying loudly (in earshot of our beleaguered waiter), “Remember to tip well! They gave us great service!” That way, even if The Husband tips poorly—which I don’t think he would do—the waiter will say, “Well, at least his wife was nice. She told him to tip well.”
MOV
("Money Or Vexation?")
I know I’m not the only one. One summer when I was in college, I hostessed at an elegant restaurant located on a lovely strip of beach in California. It was the type of place where men were expected to don a jacket and tie, and ladies felt compelled to wear lipstick, brand new stilettos, and outfits that most likely equated to a month’s rent for me. The dining room typically ran a wait of about two hours if you didn’t have the foresight to book a reservation eight weeks in advance.
Since I was the hostess, I was obviously the gatekeeper. If you tipped me $100, that pesky two hour wait evaporated into mere seconds while I quickly shuffled some papers around to miraculously find your “misplaced” reservation. I had your table for you, and that table was front and center on the window with the best view of surfers riding those movie-caliber waves.
Once, someone tried to tip me a dollar. One dollar. I glanced at the faded bill (which appeared to have gone through the dryer on the highest setting), looked at the gentleman, and politely gave the sad dollar back, saying, “Oh, thank you, sir, but we’re not allowed to accept tips.” Instead, he and his date waited patiently in the bar for the full two hours, and judging by his drunken demeanor when I finally awarded them their table, he had probably drunk $100 worth of alcohol while he waited. Perhaps that money would’ve been better spent on my tip.
I’m not saying that $100 was an appropriate tip for an 18-year-old hostess. It was excessive. I probably would’ve found him a very nice table for the bargain basement price of $50, maybe even $20. But $5? No. $10? Hope you enjoy sitting next to the restroom or busing station.
It’s easy enough to figure out the tip for the waitress when you’re at a restaurant and the bill comes to $50: good service merits 20%. But what if it’s a casual café where you order at the counter and then the girl brings it to you? In that case, 20% seems too high (and would I just leave the tip on the table? and if so, then isn’t a different person than the girl who took my order getting the money?).
What about hairdressers who charge $200? Is 20% okay? Is it too high? What if the person who does your hair is the owner of the shop? I’ve read that in that case, you should not tip. But I would feel embarrassed not to tip for fear of offending him.
And Starbucks? Should I put a dollar in the tip jar for the clerk when my drink cost $3.85? We had an interaction that was approximately 30 seconds long, and he's not even the one making my extra-hot grande triple latte with no foam.
I used to work at a paint-your-own pottery place. I would work a child's birthday party and instruct 24 rambunctious five-year-olds on how to paint a ceramic giraffe or unicorn. Then, I would paint the kids' initials on the pieces and glaze them while the rowdy wannabe Picassos bounced impatiently around the fragile shop. Next, I would help the parents serve pizza and cake, and distribute goody bags. Finally, I would clean everything up. These birthday parties usually lasted two hours and cost $300. And my normal tip for entertaining and instructing these little people I would never see again? Zero.
That's right, the Starbucks cashier gets a dollar (or two!) for a time commitment of 30 seconds (Hello, may I take your order?) while I amuse two dozen kindergartners for two long hours for no tip, not even a piece of overly-sweet cake.
Apparently I am not the only one confused about tipping.
Thank goodness I don’t live in New York, the capital of Tipping Wrong. Every time I go there, I get a complex within minutes of stepping off the plane. Everyone seems to have their hand out, and that hand is expecting crisp green dollars in double-digit denominations. The taxi driver who maneuvered you uptown through heavy traffic. The bell boy who carried your one small suitcase (but that you felt weird about saying No, I can carry it myself). The front desk clerk who just upgraded you to a suite with no extra charge. The concierge who scored you last-minute tickets to the theater. Everyone is waiting, and they are waiting for your tip, your gratitude, your mouth to open and the words pour out, “Thank you,” while you slip your hand quickly in your pocket and produce multiple pictures of a smiling Andrew Jackson.
You, yourself, however, are not smiling. You are worried you tipped too much. The bell boy practically does a back handspring when you hand him a ten, and you realize a five would’ve sufficed. The angry glare the doorman gives you tells you that maybe you should have upgraded that one dollar bill to a five when he hailed you a cab.
One day I woke up and realized I couldn’t handle it anymore. I am a bad tipper, I am an overly-generous tipper, I am a non-tipper. My life is one big swirl of dollar bills and they are all the wrong size.
I found an easy way out, a solution so I never have to tip again, ever: I got married. Now, The Husband is in charge of tipping while I gather up our two sons and all their accoutrements and head to the car, turning to The Husband and saying loudly (in earshot of our beleaguered waiter), “Remember to tip well! They gave us great service!” That way, even if The Husband tips poorly—which I don’t think he would do—the waiter will say, “Well, at least his wife was nice. She told him to tip well.”
MOV
("Money Or Vexation?")
Monday, November 22, 2010
223. Picking Up The Art
So I take Short to our local paint-your-own-pottery place to pick up his latest completed art project. My sister Oakley just flew in for a visit last week and was nice enough to take him to paint. However, she was not nice enough to help him actually write his name on whatever he made or provide a receipt. Which brings me (and the cashier girl and the manager and the owner) to our current dilemma: what did he paint?
Luckily, Short is with me. He can identify his own ceramic piece.
The manager smiles broadly at him. “Short, can you show us and your mommy what you made?”
He nods excitedly (delighted to have this audience of four) and walks right over to a gigantic dragon that was clearly painted by an adult with a Master’s degree in Fine Arts.
We all laugh. Four-year-old Short pouts, his feelings hurt.
I clarify, “Short, I’m not asking what you like or what you would like me to buy for you; I’m asking you what you painted when you came here with Auntie Oak. Can you please show me?”
“I know which one I painted, Mom,” he says, “that one,” pointing to a large platter with an ornate design of little gingerbread people all over it. If Fine Arts person did not make this, then clearly her even-more-talented twin did. Big sigh.
I ask the teen-aged cashier if she was here when Short painted with my sister. The cashier surprises me, “Why don’t you just call your sister and ask her what your little boy painted?”
Genius. Gives me hope for the next generation.
I pull out my cell phone, curse the 3-hour time difference, and dial anyway. Oakley answers on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Oakley! Sorry to call so early, hey, I’m at the ceramic place with Short and we have no idea what he painted, so do you…..”
“A tile,” she says, groggy, “a square tile.”
“Thank you! I’m so sorry I woke you, okay, go back to sleep.”
“Yeah. Bye.” The phone clicks.
The manager and I walk over to the tiles, triumphant. There are only 300 tiles here. One must belong to Short.
“Was it a handprint? Do you know what colors you used? Did you paint a truck?”
“This one!” Short grins as he hugs a very ugly tile, a tile that looks like green and brown and grey paint threw up on it. I gingerly take the tile out of his hands for closer examination. This looks like something an angry two-year-old might produce, not my much-much-older son.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to take home the wrong one….” I say cautiously. I turn towards the manager. “Lynette? I think Short would paint better than this, don’t you? Do you think this could really be the right one?”
She shrugs. “Honestly, MOV, I don’t know.”
I hold out the tile at arms-length distance. We are both scrutinizing it as if it could be a counterfeit 100-dollar bill. “It’s pretty bad,” I whisper.
At the bottom of the tile, I notice some semblance of a name in smeared black paint. It does not say “S-H-O-R-T”. It looks like it says “S-A-M”.
I shake my head and address the would-be artist directly. “Short, this does not say your name. It says, ‘Sam’. It belongs to another little boy.”
I make a face to indicate that the offending tile is icky and he wouldn’t want it anyway.
Short mirrors my face: Yuck. Dog poop. Wouldn’t want it even if it were free.
The owner decides to add her opinion, “I think you should call your sister again.”
“Yes, me too,” chimes in the (formerly helpful, now merely annoying) cashier.
I hit re-dial.
“Hello?” says Oakley.
“Me again. Soooo sorry. Do you know what is on the front of Short’s tile? We can’t find the right one.”
“Geesh, MOV,” she says, starting to sound peeved, “It’s like, 7 AM here. I dunno, it was a swirl of brown and green paint, he was trying to paint some leaves or a tree or something. Oh, yeah, I remember, he tried to write his name at the bottom, but it doesn’t look so much like it says ‘Short’…. It probably looks more like ‘Sam’. Does that help?”
Oops. “Thanks, Oak, we have the right one. Love ya!” I click my phone shut and turn towards my son.
“That’s it! That’s the right one! Beautiful!” Only I exaggerate the syllables to sound more like beeeeee….YOU….teeeeee…..full.
Short still has the “ick” face on. Dog poop, remember?
No, no, masterpiece! Rembrandt now! Happy!
Short looks at the tile and back at me. “I made this?” he inquires, perplexed.
“Yes?” I offer tentatively.
Long pause.
“I LOVE IT!” he beams.
And so do I, now, too.
MOV
Luckily, Short is with me. He can identify his own ceramic piece.
The manager smiles broadly at him. “Short, can you show us and your mommy what you made?”
He nods excitedly (delighted to have this audience of four) and walks right over to a gigantic dragon that was clearly painted by an adult with a Master’s degree in Fine Arts.
We all laugh. Four-year-old Short pouts, his feelings hurt.
I clarify, “Short, I’m not asking what you like or what you would like me to buy for you; I’m asking you what you painted when you came here with Auntie Oak. Can you please show me?”
“I know which one I painted, Mom,” he says, “that one,” pointing to a large platter with an ornate design of little gingerbread people all over it. If Fine Arts person did not make this, then clearly her even-more-talented twin did. Big sigh.
I ask the teen-aged cashier if she was here when Short painted with my sister. The cashier surprises me, “Why don’t you just call your sister and ask her what your little boy painted?”
Genius. Gives me hope for the next generation.
I pull out my cell phone, curse the 3-hour time difference, and dial anyway. Oakley answers on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Oakley! Sorry to call so early, hey, I’m at the ceramic place with Short and we have no idea what he painted, so do you…..”
“A tile,” she says, groggy, “a square tile.”
“Thank you! I’m so sorry I woke you, okay, go back to sleep.”
“Yeah. Bye.” The phone clicks.
The manager and I walk over to the tiles, triumphant. There are only 300 tiles here. One must belong to Short.
“Was it a handprint? Do you know what colors you used? Did you paint a truck?”
“This one!” Short grins as he hugs a very ugly tile, a tile that looks like green and brown and grey paint threw up on it. I gingerly take the tile out of his hands for closer examination. This looks like something an angry two-year-old might produce, not my much-much-older son.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to take home the wrong one….” I say cautiously. I turn towards the manager. “Lynette? I think Short would paint better than this, don’t you? Do you think this could really be the right one?”
She shrugs. “Honestly, MOV, I don’t know.”
I hold out the tile at arms-length distance. We are both scrutinizing it as if it could be a counterfeit 100-dollar bill. “It’s pretty bad,” I whisper.
At the bottom of the tile, I notice some semblance of a name in smeared black paint. It does not say “S-H-O-R-T”. It looks like it says “S-A-M”.
I shake my head and address the would-be artist directly. “Short, this does not say your name. It says, ‘Sam’. It belongs to another little boy.”
I make a face to indicate that the offending tile is icky and he wouldn’t want it anyway.
Short mirrors my face: Yuck. Dog poop. Wouldn’t want it even if it were free.
The owner decides to add her opinion, “I think you should call your sister again.”
“Yes, me too,” chimes in the (formerly helpful, now merely annoying) cashier.
I hit re-dial.
“Hello?” says Oakley.
“Me again. Soooo sorry. Do you know what is on the front of Short’s tile? We can’t find the right one.”
“Geesh, MOV,” she says, starting to sound peeved, “It’s like, 7 AM here. I dunno, it was a swirl of brown and green paint, he was trying to paint some leaves or a tree or something. Oh, yeah, I remember, he tried to write his name at the bottom, but it doesn’t look so much like it says ‘Short’…. It probably looks more like ‘Sam’. Does that help?”
Oops. “Thanks, Oak, we have the right one. Love ya!” I click my phone shut and turn towards my son.
“That’s it! That’s the right one! Beautiful!” Only I exaggerate the syllables to sound more like beeeeee….YOU….teeeeee…..full.
Short still has the “ick” face on. Dog poop, remember?
No, no, masterpiece! Rembrandt now! Happy!
Short looks at the tile and back at me. “I made this?” he inquires, perplexed.
“Yes?” I offer tentatively.
Long pause.
“I LOVE IT!” he beams.
And so do I, now, too.
MOV
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