That first night when I parked in the garage and tried to figure out how to make my way over to the hotel and registration, I was never so frustrated in my life...but then, a couple of days working recovery and I could no longer say that--many frustrating experiences would follow, so I can only imagine the level of angst felt by those who had experienced it and were living with the aftermath, not able to return home.
Saturday, March 28, 2015
Thursday, March 12, 2015
I vow to myself that I am not washing dishes, cooking, cleaning the kitchen, or washing towels until someone else does. The dishes stack up on the counter. There are no clean glasses, cups, plates, bowls, silverware. The hamper is full and overflowing with towels. There are no clean towels. The mud is so thick where dogs have tracked it in from the swamp that is the back yard, that were I an artist and capable of that level of creativity, I could sculpt. And then, I get tired of it. And, I clean the kitchen and wash the towels. The floor has more grit than I do.So, after a week of eating take out or oatmeal, I wanted real food. That required purchasing real food, and having clean dishes. Granted, I thought about breaking out my secret stash of paper plates, known only to me, and there is always a handful of plastic utensil packets from take out, but truly, when I reach the point I want real food, I also prefer to eat it on a ceramic plate using a stainless steel utensil.
So, there you have it: the strike in the kitchen is over again, settled by the usual capitulation of the worker. The original plan was that I was leaving for Texas, and the guys would be forced to eventually load the dishwasher and wash the towels prior to my return...then, I didn't leave.