April 21, 2009

What Dante Omitted: PTSD (The Eighth Level of Hell)

Most of you have probably heard of “posttraumatic stress disorder.” For those of you who are unfamiliar with this or whose only exposure to it has been via the glowing rays of color emitted from your television during an episode of CSI:Miami, Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is an anxiety disorder that can occur after you have been through a traumatic event. A traumatic event is something horrible and scary that you see or that happens to you. During this type of event, you think that your life or others' lives are in danger. You may feel powerless over your circumstances. Feeble. Afraid.

What you may not know is that PTSD is actually a generalized term that originated from a more specific type of disorder. My friends, Posttraumatic Stress Disorder was actually once known as “Posttucanos Stress Disorder,” but the term has since been broadened for the sake of the general public.

Posttucanos Stress Disorder is a debilitating disease that regularly affects more than 200 people worldwide. Symptoms include intense irritability, frustration and manic rage. These symptoms are often taken out on the spouses of those who suffer, leading to marital distress and—in extreme cases—lack of libido.

The road to PTSD is winding and varied. Listen to what the following PTSD sufferers have to say about their journey into the abyss:

It was a Monday night. Slow, as usual. I was in the pit. Suck. I had come to grips with the fact that I was going to make no money, but then—a glimmer of hope. My manager told me he was going to put an 8-top in my section. Yes! I thought. An 8-top meant an automatic 18% gratuity…it wouldn’t save my night by any means, but it would lessen the sting. Little did I know that this 8-top was comprised of two adults with their six young children (all under the age of six). Everyone got waters. And they had a birthday card.
-Anonymous


It was a Saturday night. Busy, as usual. I was in the 40s. Sweet. My managers told me to brace myself—a 30-top was coming in at 5:30, and they were saving my whole section for it. Big money!! 5:30 came. 5:30 went. 6:00 came. 6:00 went. 6:30 came. 6:30 went. They finally waltzed into the lobby at 7:00, and the entire party sat down all at once. I was prepared for this. Boom, boom, boom I got their drink orders and went back to the bar to get everything. That’s when I realized that nobody had been stocking. We were out of ice. Out of carafes. Out of sours. Out of tumblers. To make matters worse, the 30-top was NuSkin. We only had 3 wine glasses. And they all wanted separate checks.
-Anonymous


I knew I was in trouble when my table didn’t speak English. To add insult to injury, it was a 5-top and therefore ungratable. I watched in agony as they ordered lobster, a shrimp skewer, and gallons of booze. Their check was over $300. They left me $5.
-Anonymous


I was stoked when I got phased at 8:30. Little did I know that we still had mountains of sidework. I figured there’d be people there to help me soon enough, but at 8:30 we got a huge rush. Everybody’s sections were full. I peeled two 50-lb bags of potatoes and rolled three crates of silverware. At 10:00 I went to get my print-out, but the bar was behind on closing checks. I figured it would give me some time to do my closing sidework, so I looked up at the chart to see what I had to do. The drain. A half-hour later I finally got my print-out and gave it to a manger so he could change my numbers. He told me “just a minute.” It’s now been three weeks. I’m still at Tucanos waiting for my numbers to be changed. I think they’ve forgotten that I work here.
-Anonymous


Situations like these happen every day at Tucanos and, as you can imagine, PTSD is rampant amongst employees. Fortunately, there is a cure. It’s called Getanewjobyrll. This FDA-approved medication is covered by most insurers and can drastically alleviate the symptoms of PTSD. As with any medication, there are side effects to Getanewjobyrll. These include restlessness, insomnia, headache, tremor, dry mouth, confusion, rapid heartbeat, dizziness, nausea, constipation, menstrual complaints, rash, dry mouth, urinary retention, blurred vision, weight gain, weight loss, diarrhea and inability to achieve an erection. If you are unwilling to accept the risk of these side effects, PTSD has only one other known solution: faking your own death.

If you would like to personally donate to the cause of PTSD, please call 801-224-4774 and make a reservation at Tucanos. Be kind and courteous to your server, as they will most certainly be the same to you. Have class and show appreciation by tipping them 20% of the original amount of the check (i.e. pre-coupons). To make this easy for you, follow this rule: look at the first two digits of the bill, stick a decimal point between them, and double that number.

Your check is $45.67. Pay attention only to the 4 and 5. Stick a decimal point between them—4.5. Double that number. That means you should leave a $9 tip.

If your check skyrockets into the triple-digit range ($100 and up) follow the same rule, but instead look at the first three numbers and stick a decimal point after the first two. Then double that number.

Your check is $175.23. Pay attention only to the 1, 7 and 5. Stick a decimal point between after the first two numbers—17.5. Double that number. That means you should leave a $35 tip.

If your check exceeds the triple-digit range and is over $1000, then you are really freaking rich and probably have a black American Express card and already know how to tip. Therefore, no advice is needed.

If the makers of Getanewjobyrll and the general public work together, the sufferers of PTSD will be sufferers no more. As a victim of PTSD myself, I thank you for educating yourself on this incapacitating disease and hope that you will do your part in the future to prevent it.

How to Know if You've Married a Dork

Ladies of the World,

It's a Wednesday night. But not just ANY Wednesday night, mind you. It's April 15th, 2009. Yes, yes, yes, it's El Dia de Taxos, but it ALSO marks the official end of classes for BYU students. Nothing's due today! Unforeseen hours lay unscheduled before you! And what will you do with this time, Ladies of the World? You there, in the back. What would you do? What's that? A night out on the town with your husband? Your amazingly good-looking, funny, charismatic husband? Well, naturally!

What shall you do? Dinner? (Don't worry--you've gift cards aplenty!) A movie? (Dollar theater!) Perhaps a candlelit rendezvous in your sleeping quarters mmmmm??

No.

If you're married to MY husband, your school-free Wednesday evening will include idling away the hours at Barnes and Noble.

His idea. I swear.

Quote: "Hey! If we're lucky those comfy chairs in the business section will be open!!!"- Brock Boyce 4/15/2009

Why, exactly, is my husband so bent on going to Barnes and Noble, you ask? Get this: he wants to "brush up on his calculus." Yes, my friends. He wants to go to Barnes and Noble with his rented-from-the-Provo-City-Library-old-edition calculus textbook and READ IT.

?!?!?!?!?!?!

April 15th, 2009. I had my suspicions about Brock before, but today they were confirmed: I'm married to a dorkasaurus.


HAHAHAHA!!!
(Brock probably thinks this is the funniest picture ever.)

April 6, 2009

First in Battle

He was turning 88.

His wife—an elegant, poised, seemingly majestic woman—sat across from him. Surrounding the rest of the table were their children and their spouses. One of his birthday gifts sat directly in front of him: a huge carton of RedVines. (I guess the man was known for his sweet tooth.)

Some co-workers and I came out to sing the Brazilian “happy birthday” song to him. His eyes glimmered and an infectious smile crept across his crinkly face as we butchered the Portuguese we were singing in. My mind was elsewhere. Refills to table 13, bring check to table 25, dessert tray to 15, ring in lemonades for 24 . . .

The song ended. I said a quick, customary “Happy birthday, sir” and went off to take care of the rest of my tables. But as I turned to leave, the old man caught me by the arm.

“Young lady,” he said.

My heart quickened as he pulled me closer.

“You go home and tell all your friends that this was the day you were kissed on the hand by a Marine!

He gingerly lifted my hand to his lips, as if he was about to sip from a cup made of fine China. Looking directly into my eyes, he softly kissed the front of my hand and then slowly brought it back down to my side.

“And that’s how you do it!” he beamed. There was that smile again. “Would you like to hear a poem?”

“Of course I would!”(As if I was going to say “no” to that!)

It was a love poem. Not an overused classic like Sonnet #18 or a soliloquy from Romeo and Juliet—it had a different tambour to it. It sounded like something a soldier would write to his wife waiting back home. Or lyrics to an old Sam Cook song. I glanced over at his wife. She’d heard it before.

So there I was, standing face-to-face with a member of the greatest generation our country has ever seen. Having a love poem recited to me, no less! Had Brad Pitt sat down at one of my tables I couldn’t have cared less.

 The poem ended, but I didn’t want to leave. I searched for a conversation-starter:

 “My grandpa was a Marine, too. He fought in WWII and Korea. Which wars did you fight in?”

 “Really, now? I was in WWII y’see. I was at Iwo Jima. You know what Iwo Jima is?”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “Got shot right through here,” he pointed to his left thigh, “and still got shrapnel floating around in here,” he patted his right shoulder. “Y’know what they say. Once a Marine, always a Marine! Them Navy guys are always out on the water, them Air Force guys are always out flying around, and then you got them Army guys on land doin’ who knows what. But we Marines are always first in battle, y’see. Just like our song says.”

 

From the Halls of Montezuma
To the Shores of Tripoli;
We fight our country's battles
In the air, on land and sea;
First to fight for right and freedom 
And to keep our honor clean; 
We are proud to claim the title 
of United States Marine.

 

This man was part of a diminishing generation of great patriots. It’s a shame I only knew him for five minutes. Unfortunately, patriotism like his is often frowned upon these days. It seems to be in vogue to criticize, belittle and even feel ashamed of our country. Just ask Sean Penn, Gwenyth Paltrow, or a host of other high-profile celebrities. For those of you who wonder why I’m stuck in the old-fogey traditional mindset of years past: this Marine is the reason.

 He didn’t step on the battleground of Iwo Jima so that moral relativism could pervade our society

He didn’t get shot in the thigh with the hopes that future progressive thinkers would have the “freedom” to hate America. I recently saw one of these progressive thinkers, the leader of an anti-war activist group call Code Pink, on a news show. This group desperately protests for the removal of U.S. troops from Iraq and Afghanistan. Instead, they call for “diplomacy” and “peacemaking.”

With the Taliban. Interesting. I hope that works out for them.

Such people are so jaded by their idealism that there becomes a gray line between good and evil. That way, everyone can do what they want and be happy, right? We all deserve the opportunity to exercise our freedoms! Our rights! It’s what the Founding Fathers wanted! (If a Utopian free-for-all is what you think the Founding Fathers wanted, then you’re in dire need of a history lesson.) If there truly is a gray line between good and evil, the Marine who serenaded me wouldn’t have war scars all over his body. If there truly is a gray line between good and evil, 3000 people would still being going home to their families tonight after their workday at the World Trade Center.

 My point is that you can’t be “first in battle” if there’s nothing to fight for. I know it. This Marine knew it. And the 144,000 troops deployed in Iraq know it too. If America is to remain a beacon of democracy, her citizens need to be proud of their heritage and fight for the good.

Semper fidelis.