Loading ...I was watching a segment on one of my local television shows recently about how to tip your service providers this holiday season. It got me to thinking about those special folks in my day-to-day life who probably don’t get recognized very often in any special way.
I’m generally pretty good about letting folks who are special to me know how much they are appreciated and how awesome I think they are. But there are three that I’m going to go that extra mile for this year because they go the extra mile for me every time we connect.
Teresa
There is a local greasy spoon we frequent at least once a week, and I emphasize "at least" because it’s probably no less than twice a week, LOL. It’s a local institution (been around about 60 or 70 years I think), family-run until just a couple years ago. The new owners are keeping the tradition alive–hey, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, you know, and you can always count on real home-cooked comfort food and the staff and cooks who have served there their entire hospitality careers.
Well, my favorite waitress there is Teresa. She’s the original Flo. Loud, brassy, never without a witty, hysterical retort. And I just love her!
She never forgets a name, and never met a person she didn’t like. She always seems to know just what will make our tummies feel good, and I don’t think she’s had a bad day in her life. And if she did, she’d never take it out on her customers. That’s just the way she is.
She’s the only waitress who always brings me my diet Coke with a cherry in it. I never think to ask for a cherry, and I never ask anyone else to do it either because it is such a delight when I can be served by Teresa and have her bring my drink knowing that it will arrive topped with a little treat.
It’s our little tradition: I always clap and say "Oh, goody! A cherry!" and Teresa always says, "Of course! That’s love, baby."
That’s our Teresa.
Our Full-Service Gas Station
There is a gas station I always go to. It’s not the one closest to us. And it’s not the cheapest. But if they were to give out Emmys for Best Service Station Ever, this business would win hands down every time.
This particular service station is part of a dying breed; one of only a handful of family-run, full-service stations left in our area.
You see, I have this little secret. Me and cars… well, let’s just say it’s a love/hate relationship. I absolutely love to drive. Road trips are my most favorite thing to do in the world. But I can’t deal with anything else having to do with cars. Don’t ask me to even look under the hood of a car. I would sooner learn to speak Russian than try to understand the mysterious innards of my vehicle.
People have tried to get me to be a little more self-sufficient and knowledgeable when it comes to my cars. My dad. My boyfriend. Friends. It’s like trying to get oil to mix with water. I don’t care to know. I don’t want to know. For me, paying someone $100 cash before even attempting to fill the air in my tires myself is something I would seriously consider.
But my service station guys… they don’t judge. They don’t question. They don’t try to change me. I can pull in, not buy a thing, and they will happily (yes, happily! Every time!) check the air in my tires, top off my fluids, and clean the windows.
We have a little joke, and I try to tip them. I’m never one to take advantage, and I think they deserve to be paid for their time and trouble. But they always refuse! Without fail, I’m treated like a friend, never a customer.
Needless to say, I am steadfastly loyal and devoted to them. Yes, they will definitely be getting a little extra sumpin’ sumpin’ in the stocking from Santa this year.
My Nail Salon
I have another disclosure to make: I am a high-maintenance chick. But a bit of a reformed one. Having a tree-hugging, mountain-climbing guy for a boyfriend will do that to a girl. He’d have us living in a lean-to in the Alaskan wilderness if I didn’t draw the line somewhere. I haven’t loss all reason, you know!
But it’s all good. I can go camping now and actually enjoy it, AND go for <gasp> several days at a time without the need for electrical appliances. I know, I know… I’m amazed myself.
However, there is one luxury in life that I simply cannot forego: fake nails.
I have this little nail salon that I have been going to forever; like 8 or 10 years now. Oh, every once awhile, I get a wild hair and "go natural." But I can be gone for a year, and I’ll walk in the door, and my nail tech, Lan, will look up as if we never lost a day and sit me down right away in my favorite chair and ask, "So, Danielle, white powder tip today?"
Lan has fascinated me from day one. She has what must be a photographic memory. I mean, she literally KNOWS every single one of her clients’ names; never forgets. And she always remembers exactly what services they usually get and what colors they like.
It’s probably safe to say they have at least 100-200 regular customers–can you imagine remembering the minute preferences and details of that many people?! And this is all in her brain; not a computer in the house.
And I know this might sound silly, especially to my someone like my boyfriend who thinks fake nails are ridiculous, but she is a true craftsman. She has her technique down to a fine science, and I leave after each visit with little works of art on the tips of every one of my digits. Truthfully, there isn’t a soul in town who does nails in any way like Lan does nails.
Oh, I’ve tested out different places, believe me. Usually in some kind of dire after-hours nail emergency (yeah, yeah, laugh it up, but there ARE, too, nail emergencies), or because I was out of town. But I’m never happy. They are always too thick, or too sloppy, not flat enough, not secure enough.
Seriously, I have not found anyone out there who can compare to the skill and quality of Lan’s nails. They last forever and look and feel so natural. If Lan does your nails, they will never pop off (you girls know what I’m talking ’bout).
And best of all, Lan and I always giggle together. I don’t know what I’m gonna do if she ever decides to do something else!
Let me...
