Showing posts from February, 2011

The Pleasantries Of Politeness

"When a society abandons its ideals just because most people can't live up to them, behavior gets very ugly indeed." ~ Judith Martin (Miss Manners)

Last week Courtney asked for a blogpost regarding politeness and manners. Her request came after a busy lunch hour. We have wonderful customers at W. D. Deli. Wonderful. Many have become good friends, and some are even like family. But sometimes, once in a while, someone will walk toward the deli counter while in deep conversation on his/her cell phone, and after a while, look up, squint at the menu boards, and start barking his/her order, "Let me have a turkey club and throw some potato salad on there," and continue the cell phone conversation. Like I said, it only happens once in a while. And because it’s not the "norm," those kinds of incidents stand out. And we usually tell each other about them later in the day. "Venting," I believe they call it.

Another perspective would be that we are all m…

What's that smell?

When I was a student in the fifth grade at David G. Burnett Elementary School in Dallas, Texas, my P. E. teacher was Mrs. Mallory. She was a mean, wiry little woman who could give Glee’s Sue Sylvester a run for her money. Mrs. Mallory smelled like your laundry when you leave it in the washing machine for days and then put it in the dryer (You know). She also smelled faintly of cigarettes (I’m guessing Pall Mall) and gin (I’m guessing the cheap kind). One day toward the end of a P.E. class, Mrs. Mallory called us all in from the playground to deliver a little sermon about how it made her sick to see little boys running on the field like little girls, that boys should act like boys and girls should act like girls, blah blah blah. Funny that I have such a clear and specific memory about that. What a bitch.

A slightly hazier memory is the vision of my fifth grade homeroom teacher, Ms. Deana Underwood. I say the memory is hazier because Ms. Underwood seemed to live in a kind of Doris Day s…

Blogposts and Cocktail Conversation

Last Friday night a dear friend approached me and expressed concern regarding this here little blog. "It’s not edgy enough. It’s not you enough," she said. I understood completely what she meant. She wanted to read something a little more Sedaris-y, and a little less W. D. Deli PR-y. I’ll try to do better. It may require some serious soul searching. It may require a lot more thought and a considerable amount of head scratching. But I’ll try.

But, Gentle Reader, be aware that one’s blogposts may not be as easy and breezy and witty as one’s cocktail conversation. Over a few margaritas, I might be able to regale you with a semi-bitchy and totally clever critique of the wardrobe choices of the woman a couple of tables over. That’s cocktail conversation. The kind that I am seemingly genetically wired for. But blogging is different.

Mr. Bobo wishes to amuse the reader, but not at the expense of, well, anyone. At least that’s how I feel now. I shared all of this information with De…

The Phone Rings...

This past Monday morning my cell phone started ringing at about 8:15. I looked at the phone. The caller I.D. told me that it was W. D. Deli. I was pretty sure it would not be good news. It is quite rare that I get a call from the deli kids telling me that everything is great. The call never sounds like, "Hey. ‘Just wanted to let you know that everyone got here on time, everything is going well, and, oh yeah, the bank called and they found an extra $10,000 that belongs in our operating account." Nope. I’ve never gotten that call.

It’s much more likely that the call will be more along the lines of:

"David called. He went to Austin last night with his friends and they left him and he is stranded there. He won’t be in to work."

"Stephanie can’t come to work today. Her roommates were fighting all night. She has to stay home. She’s afraid they’ll destroy the house, and the lease is in her name."

"We’re out of [whatever necessary thing to complete the day’s…