A Trio of Thoughts
There are lifestyle blogs. There are food blogs. There are business blogs and educational blogs and travel blogs. What is Liv In The City? It’s many things, of course, but as dedicated readers may agree, an apt categorization might be “complaint blog” or “complaints posing as a blog.”
Sue me, I like to complain. But, in my defense, so do many others. I could truthfully list it as a skill on my résumé. That said, what follows is a trio of thoughts that read as complaints—because that’s the way my brain works—that may in fact be complaints (they are), that I needed to store somewhere. Do with all of this what you will, even if it’s nothing at all.
Thought Number One: Movie theaters, such as IPIC, where you get served dinner while you watch the film, are completely stupid and unnecessary.
There I was, Friday night, experiencing my first “dine-in” movie, The Devil Wears Prada 2. (Meh.) My lovely sister brought my other sister and me as her guests to an Old Navy-sponsored night-of-premiere-day screening, and we were granted unlimited popcorn, candy, and fountain drinks as part of the deal. Sweet, right? Again, meh.
The problem is, when you want more of anything, you have to summon your server with a button push (think flight attendants), the button then glows alarmingly bright blue, and then the person comes over and asks you, out loud, what you need. Ok, sure, if I wanted more popcorn before this innovation, I’d have to miss some of the film. However, I would argue that if you can anticipate your needs well enough, a large should tide you over for a few hours. Or two larges; no judgement here. Or two larges and Raisinets and nachos and a large Coke; no judgement here. It’s dark, after all. I rather not have people conducting whispered food orders throughout the course of the film.
Additionally, I must remind you with a self-quote, “it’s dark, after all.” There I was, stabbing blindly at a chicken Caesar salad, unsure what my fork would spear, and then lifting it shakily to my mouth to sometimes find that it was, in fact, nothing at all. Honestly, they could have put whatever they wanted in that bowl. They might as well call it “Eating While Blind: The Experience.”
The bottom line is—and call me old-fashioned—pre-movie concessions work just fine. And what do they say about things that “ain’t broke”? The whole night, my mind kept returning to two things: the completely unnecessary addition of a love interest for Anne Hathaway in the film, and how much I felt like those chair-dependent people from WALL-E.
Thought Number Two: People don’t say “excuse me” anymore, and it’s infuriating. (People also don’t say “thank you” anymore when you hold doors for them, but I could write 10k words on that subject alone, so I will spare you all.)
I blame AirPods, headphones, earphones, whatever. Maybe it’s just that. That people figure you can’t hear them anyway, so a good little (or large) nudge should do the trick, right? Hah!
The subway is the best place to witness this behavior. You need to get off, but there are people in the way? Say “excuse me.” Don’t just stand there hoping they will sense your presence. And then don’t get pissy when they don’t sense your presence and proceed to shove past without more than a “harrumph.” It’s two words. Maybe you will have to be a little louder than usual, because it’s cool to be distracted these days, but that’s all it takes! And I know people like myself would appreciate it. When you excuse yourself, you give the rest of us a chance to do the right thing, to make the passage easier for you, and to save ourselves from a shove.
Sidewalks, elevators, Starbucks waiting-for-my-order zones, the aisles of Target, wherever. If someone is in your way, politely let them know. If I am blocking the drawer of plastic utensils in the office kitchenette, please let me know if you need a fork. Don’t haunt me over my shoulder like the Grim Reaper.
Thought Number Three: Servers in restaurants don’t tell you their names anymore. I do not like this.
Of course, as with thought number two, there are exceptions. In fact, during my recent experience at IPIC, our server gave her name as Alaina (though I could not see a name tag (darkness), so I am not sure how to spell it).
I may be going crazy, but I feel as though, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned fewer and fewer names of the people serving me at restaurants. I may not learn their name until I see it printed on our receipt.
Maybe you don’t care. Maybe (and rightly) you argue that knowing the name of the server does not make the food taste any better or worse. But where’s the humanity? I bet you that once robots take over for humans as waitstaff, they will have names to humanize them. Ok, maybe not.
When I sit down in your section, I am placing trust in you, and I want to know you at the most basic level. You can lie, make up a name (like we all do on the ET ride at Universal); I won’t know! What I will know is that you have opened the doors to an interpersonal relationship that will last for the next 1-3 hours. And you should know that I appreciate it.
To me, knowing the name of my server is more important than whether my forkful of salad in a dark theater brings up lettuce, chicken, or a morsel unknown.