Irritating informality

'Twas always an adventure to eat out with my family when I was growing up.  The informality of the "me" generation clashed with the more rigid social rules of my parents' generation, which always led to humorous exchanges with waitrons at the local eating establishments.  My mom, for example, didn't like it when waitrons introduced themselves by their first names like "Hi I'm Filbert and I'll be serving you this evening".  Perhaps a more formalized name structure, such as Mr. Filbert would have satisfied her, as she grew up in a very traditional setting where her father ran a family farm and was heavily influenced by the Spanish-Filipino way of plantation life in the 1920's, '30's, & '40's.  And then there was my 2nd generation Italian dad, who grew up in a steel town east of Pittsburgh, where there was a particular way things were done.  Frequent eruptions at the waitrons are a significant source of revisionist and humorous history at family gatherings.

When I was slinging plates at local eateries I think my parents softened their views towards the American waitron culture, as we all mellow with age anyway.  But now that I'm 20 years removed from that mode of breadwinning I find MYSELF less patient with my former brothers and sisters.  To wit:  I'm at the Rock Bottom Brewery one day, anticipating the enjoyment of their ordinary food and bland swilly ale.  Our waiter approaches the table and actually SITS at one of the empty chairs to take our order.  If I wasn't laughing internally at what my kids would be writing about many years later I would have replicated both of my parents reactions (icy stare from mom, volcanic eruption from dad) to a tee.  Apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

I only say this to set the table for today's encounter with a version of irritating informality.  Given the fact that the economy is in the tank we architects need to find work where we can get it, we are at the beck and call of our (potential) clients.  This is no different than any other professional out there, so this is no precursor to a "poor me" diatribe.  I'm a firm believer in the 40 hour work week, so much so that I discourage people from my office from working off hours, especially weekends.  The need to recharge is so important to productivity that efficiency and quality work suffers when we work too much.  This is not typical of the architecture business, as many of my brethren are self-flagellating martyrs with an inflated sense of self-importance.  Just look at pictures of architects in the professional journals.  None of them smile and they tend to dress in black, like Dieter.  Well not all of us...we're all a piece of the larger puzzle.

What about irritating informality?  Hang with me.  I'm blathering.

A potential client wanted me to present our wares to them on a Sunday afternoon.  This client is a tenant association for an affordable housing co-op near Rock Creek that can only meet on evenings and weekends, as they are prime examples of the occupants of "workforce housing", you know, the people that do all of the jobs that the anti-immigration set doesn't want to do but expects them to be done by magic.  Oops.  They are planning to purchase the building and rehab it, so they are interviewing architects for the unglamorous but (in my opinion) incredibly gratifying process of rejuvenating an old building.

So I go into the office and pick up the presentation boards and some other materials, and as I'm walking into my parking garage, I pass a woman and her friend, who are on a smoke break.  The woman sees me and commands:  "It's Sunday.  Quit working.  Go home."  Not "Hello" or "How's it going" or "Too bad you're working on Sunday" or nothing as none of this is her business.  Now I'm fairly certain that despite the abrupt nature of her comment she didn't mean anything untoward, but the irritating informality of the tone of voice and the way she just kinda thrust herself into my life without any context rubbed me the wrong way.  So I sweetly provided her with a Cliff's Notes version of the context as I walked away:  "tenant association...meet on weekends...presentation...blahblahblah" to which she insincerely said "Well good luck with your presentation"  Thanks I insincerely replied, words hanging in the air of the concrete garage, resonating in an entirely unsatisfying way.  Maybe she was commiserating with me since she was stuck working on a Sunday too.  I don't know...maybe I'm "projecting".

Anywho, the meeting went well, I was able to present in Spanglish with the help of a translator and hopefully we get the job.  So throw this on a pile of good things that make up a sterling weekend:  mastering (well almost) the minor pentatonic scale in E and laying down "Hey Joe" on the guitar; a great ride Saturday morning (except for the frostbitten feet) with many friends from the shop; daughter's soccer game showed me our team will be good this year; a dip in the pool at the Y with the fam; another hour throwing the hardball with my son, whose baseball season starts next week; significant progress on the house drawings; kabobs for dinner; Caps win and Hurricanes lose to setup a major showdown Tuesday night; another great ride Sunday morning (decent 150 mile week) with many friends from the shop; major de-junkifying of the house; a good meeting for work; and the Nats season opener on in the background as I wrap up this here entry.

I'm done.  I thank both of my known and loyal readers for their patience.

Toodles.