It's been a rough year. Twelve months is a long time to feel loss, and I don't think I'll be over it none too soon. I've been doing okay navigating my murky life without him, but it just isn't the same. My boat upon the water has become a raft I'm pulling through a muddy, green swamp. There seems like there is nothing to look forward to because the fog surrounding the swamp is so thick. I can't see the light of day, even from my perch here at The Lamp Post. It's been a year since I lost him. My hero. Jack.
Sometimes you fall in love with something and you don't know why. You can't explain it, but it runs deep in your soul. That is how I fell in love with the TV show LOST and really haven't found anything to fill the void. You've heard my constant urgings to watch the series, even to the most remote parts of Slovenia. For those of you who have continued to ignore me, I put a short tutorial posted above, summing up the series for you in just 3 minutes. Today marks the date of two special events in history: the anniversary of the LOST finale one year ago, and the birth of my husband 42 years ago. The title to this blog will tie both events together. Don't believe me? Read on.
I clearly remember 5-23-2010. It was the date all LOST fans had anticipated and dreaded at the same time. We wanted ANSWERS! We wanted CLOSURE! But that also meant that we took our right hand and flipped the back cover to the left. That's closure for sure because the story was over. There would be no more. We'd finally have our ending, but then it was time to put the book away. Shelve it until we were ready to look though it again and could do so with a smile.
There were few people who stuck with the show from beginning to end. My friend Tracy from Fort Mill, SC was one of them. She was the one who bugged and pestered me to watch it. She was so utterly convinced I would love it that she told me that she thought I wrote the show. Well that pricked my ears up. I was a LOST- late bloomer, so to speak. I ended up purchasing the first two seasons, watched them over a summer vacation, and picked up on the series during its third year. I convinced my mother to do the same thing, and she followed my advice (for once) and became a fan. So it was for my mom and I that I had my LOST finale party--Party For Two.
I went all out decorating the house with LOST memorabilia. My mother actually made a scrapbook of all of our favorite articles, quotes, blog posts, and magazine clippings about the show. We had pulled pork sandwiches (roasted boar), fresh pineapple, and a bucket of Mr. Cluck's Chicken. Ellen even made an island themed LOST cake, complete with people standing on top and a drowning Jin and Sun. I spent way too much money for way too little alcohol for the party. I bought $30 of those little liquor bottles that you can buy at the check out counter at the State Stores. They are the kind that you get on airplanes. Mom and I had them all lined up and toasted the show throughout the finale. It was the one and only time I can recall doing shots with my own mother. I loved the ending. I can summarize it in just one word: beautiful.The next day I took a personal day from work. I had planned that in advance knowing that I would most likely re watch the finale again into the wee hours of the night. Well, that and the fact of those tiny airliner sized bottles of alcohol--what is that rule about not mixing beverages? I guess Dharma beer and vodka don't work well together. I still went in to work the following Monday, well, sort of. It was the day we had decided to give our daughter Natalie a tour of the Junior High School and meet the students in her middle level autism class. I was a bit bleary eyed from too little sleep and too much alcohol. My eyes were puffy from crying watching my hero Jack die. Mr. Fritts, Natalie's teacher picked up on my subdued demeanor and said to me, "It's okay to be a little apprehensive. Lots of parents get that way at transition time. Don't worry, Natalie will be happy here." I snorted and laughed and said, "Oh, no. I haven't been crying over that. I trust you. I'm sad because my favorite show is over and my hero died." Sniffle, sniffle, sniff, sniff. That was me having another breakdown at the mere mention of it again. Great way to make a first impression. Everyone is forgivable in autism land though. They've seen it all.
So my show is LOST, both literally and figuratively. It is gone but not forgotten. Something else I'll never forget is how I met my husband. The short version is we met in North East where we both began our teaching careers. The long version is a bit different and far more entertaining. It is my most requested story to be told, so here's the blogified version:
I was in my senior year of college working my #$% off, finishing up my courses and working two waitressing jobs. I worked at Pizza Hut and Marketplace Grill. I was a far better pizza slinger than a Marketplace Grill server. Pizza joints are more my thing. It's really hard to mess up a pizza order. I'm not the fancy restaurant type. It was hard to work there because learning the menu alone was difficult. It was a great place to eat because you had so many options. Servers were tested not only on the menu items, but had to learn the ingredients and how the dishes were made, too. Plus, the customers at Marketplace were a bit more finicky. They never were satisfied with what was offered on the menu--they always had to order something a little special--like hold this or that---or please put my hollendaise sauce on the side. It was ANNOYING. I wanted to scream, "just pick off your own damn tomato!" but I refrained because the money was so good. I sucked it up.
On one insanely busy day in October 1992, due to a teacher convention at the Erie Civic Center, we were slammed at the restaurant. A flood of teachers rushed the door to grab a "quick bite to eat" on their lunch hour. Sorry, colleagues. No such thing when 70% of your work force happens to be salad eating women. The cold line chefs were slammed. Didn't Eloise happen to get a table full of teachers from North East, the exact school district I had been assigned to for the upcoming spring for student teaching. "Wow! How opportune!", I thought. "What a great way to make a first impression." I guess I thought wrong.
The lunches were backed up and I tried to distract my table full of teachers with funny lunchtime fodder. I was perky, and chatty, and humorous on the outside and cringing on the inside knowing the foul words that were flying around the kitchen behind those double doors. Chefs get a little testy under pressure. Unbeknownst to me, another customer joined the table late and I didn't notice him. It was a young man and I realized he had been sitting there far too long to even place an order. I kept signaling to him that I'd be right there, when he hollered over, "Just get me a chocolate milk shake!" "No problem," I mouthed back.
Liar, liar, pants on fire. Hell yes there was a problem and I sure did catch hell for it later. Chocolate milkshakes were not on the menu at Marketplace Grill. The menu was vast and had something to appeal to just about everyone's fine dining pleasure, BUT NO CHOCOLATE MILKSHAKES! By the time I figured this out by backing up the computer system for the entire restaurant searching for it, it was too late. The only thing I could find that was even close to Chocolate Milkshake was "Kids Chocolate Sundae." I punched that in the computer and decided to take matters into my own hands. I'd make that guy his friggin milkshake myself and deal with the consequences of ringing in a false order later.
If you've ever worked in a restaurant, you know what it is like behind those swinging doors when things are slamming. There's lots of hustle and bustle, tension, and foul language. First I asked the bartender if we had a glass for a milkshake. "We don't sell milkshakes, you idiot!" was his reply. "I know that," I said, "and may I borrow the blender?" He told me to get out of his way and I think he meant it, so I bagged the blender idea and snatched some sort of tall, cylindrical glass from behind the bar on my way through. I still don't know what kind of drink really goes in it because I only drink beer. It's still a mystery.
Next, I inquired to the dessert chef if we had any ice cream. The dessert chef, who was assisting the Cold Line salad guy who was neck deep in House Orientals said to me, "put two and two together and make five, Sweetheart. Where did I think we'd keep the ice cream?" "The freezer?" I asked, innocently inflecting my voice in the end hoping to win her over a bit so she'd make me a milkshake on the fly. "What do you need ice cream for?" she barked. "A chocolate milkshake," I replied as I made my way into the freezer. "We don't sell chocolate milkshakes!" she yelled, and threw a spoon at me. I retrieved the spoon from the dirty, sticky floor and shoved it in my apron pocket.
I found the ice cream in the DEEP freezer. Man was it cold in there and boy did it keep that ice cream rock hard. I pried the lid off of a great big container of vanilla and tried to figure out how I was going to get it out of there. Hey! What luck! The spoon! I literally chipped my way through that drum of ice cream with the nice dirty spoon (Note to Health Department--this was 1992 if you have to trace back any food born illnesses). By the time I had the glass nearly filled I was sweating.
On the way out of the freezer I asked Chef Sunshine if she happened to have any chocolate syrup. I am pretty good at picking up facial cues and I knew I was walking a fine line, but I had a customer to deal with. She pointed a fat finger in the direction of a cooler and much to my surprise, I found a plastic, half used bottle of Hershey's syrup. "We use Hershey's syrup?" was my only intelligent response, really to no one. If you know me, I am known for thinking out loud. I squirted some in and began the chopping process to get that hard ice cream to blend. It was kind of like a brown lava flow because I filled the glass too full and everything was slopping over the sides and I was making a huge mess in a very busy part of a very busy kitchen. I felt a heavy palm on my shoulder squeeze me a touch too hard and said, "GET OUT OF HERE! AND BY THE WAY, PETER IS LOOKING FOR YOU!" Oh crap, Peter was the owner.
Just didn't it happen to be my luck that all of my orders would come up and be ready to be delivered whilst I was making the makeshift milkshake. I tried to sneak my way out of there, but he caught me red handed, with my dripping concoction leaving me red faced, too. "What is THAT?" the owner asked me. "A chocolate milkshake," I replied. You know the line by now, readers, so say it with me, "We don't sell chocolate milkshakes." I slinked off.
By then, my table full of people I was trying to impress was looking tense. They had about five minutes to eat and signalled for the bills. I delivered Mr. Milkshake his drink, dripping with chocolate, sweating, and my pony tail was crooked. He said, "I'll take my bill, too." He looked nervous and stood up without even taking one sip of my masterpiece. This pissed off Eloise. Pissy, pissy Eloise.
I tried to divide the bills and I was so upset I screwed up the computer. That made the line in the restaurant even longer and made the naturally timely teachers even a little more impatient. I can spot a fake, teacher smile from a mile away. All those toothy grins were gleaming in my direction. Mr. Milkshake was last and I knew there would be no way for him to pay for a menu item that did not exist, so I waved him along and said, "Go. Just go. I got this. Consider this my apology for your poor service." So he left, without leaving me a tip, may I add.
I was cleaning up the aftermath when I was informed that I needed to stay after work to talk with the owner. Great. While I mentally prepared for my walking papers, the Chef Sunshine yelled out, "Who's sundae is this?" And there sitting on the cold line was the "kids chocolate sundae" I punched in nearly 45 minutes before that. One of the Reese's cup ears had fallen off and the cherry nose was bleeding. It looked hideous, and I had the urge to punch it. I grabbed the sundae and deposited the whole thing upside down in the garbage can, dessert glass and all. It felt good and besides, I was getting fired anyway.
The owner had a long talk with me about my organizational skills and that I needed to improve them. He also told me that he should fire me on the spot for my poor decision making, but I was just too darn likable. His only option was to put me through the training program again with all the new recruits, although I had been working there for awhile. I apologized and thanked him for his patience, but on the long ride home, I decided that I had enough. I went back in the next day and gave my two weeks notice. I quit. I hated that job and it was really the only job I ever disliked. It was also the only thing I ever quit in my life. Nothing ever felt natural for me to be there. It was truly work for me to be a fine dinging server. I was trying to be something I wasn't and it just wasn't working. I worked for a few more days, then suddenly my name no longer appeared on the schedule, so I assumed my stint as "nice restaurant waitress" was over. I don't think anyone there was too heartbroken. I picked up extra shifts at my true blue-collar love, Pizza Hut, and I was all the happier for it. The money wasn't as important as my own sanity. The restaurant closed down awhile ago. I guess they just couldn't make a go of it without me. Maybe if they would have just added chocolate milkshakes to the menu they could have survived this economic slump.
Six months later, I was getting introduced to all of the teaching staff at Heard Elementary School in North East. I was taken room to room by my cooperating teacher Mrs. Wright. She told me that she saved the room on the end for last because there was a new, young teacher in there that I may like to talk to. He was writing something on the blackboard and as soon as he turned in my direction, I knew it was him--Mr. Milkshake.
Later that day we ate lunch together. I took a seat at the end of the table, and in Mr. Milkshake walked, "Out of my seat, Rookie!" he said. I moved over a chair and thought, "Man, this guy is a real piece of work." We chatted and ate and watched the kids play at recess out of the window and I could see in the relection that he was sending extra glances in my direction. He stopped me on the way out of lunch and said, "You look so familar. Have we met before?" And the rest they say is history, because I married that man sixteen months later. I'm a teacher so I know how history can easily fade from your memory, but some things are just impossible to forget. I guess I made a better first impression the second time around. As for him, you know what I said before, everything is forgivable (but not necessarily forgotten).
Happy birthday, Louie. I'll have your chocolate milkshake waiting for you after school--just the way you like it--resembling a lava flow. You can leave me a tip this time, too.
Eloise
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