The Creative Nest

I have a question. When did tipping become something we are apparently expected to do everywhere? I feel like I blinked and suddenly the little tip screen followed me out of the restaurant and into every corner of my life. I understand tipping at a restaurant. Someone brings me food, keeps my drink filled, clears my dishes, and makes sure I don't have to get up every five minutes. Fine. I understand the arrangement. But lately, I feel like I need to be prepared to tip simply because I had the audacity to purchase something. I walked into a store, picked something off a shelf, carried it to the register myself, stood in line, waited my turn, and handed the cashier my money. The cashier rang it up, put it in a bag, and then spun that little screen around toward me with the tip options staring back at me. Eighteen percent. Twenty percent. Twenty-five percent. Excuse me? A tip for what? I did most of the work here. At this point, I would like a tip for successfully navigating the store...

You know that feeling when you sit down to write an email and actually put some thought into it? I mean real thought. You organize your thoughts, explain the situation, include the important details, provide context, and maybe even reread the whole thing three times because you want to make absolutely certain the person on the other end cannot possibly misunderstand what you're saying. You carefully choose your words, make sure the information is in the right order, and perhaps even add a little background information because you know that without it, your question might not make sense. Eventually, you hit send and sit back feeling pretty good about yourself. “Okay,” you think. “That was clear. There is absolutely no way this could be misunderstood.” And then the response arrives. You open it, read it once, and immediately get that strange feeling in your stomach. You read it again because surely you must have missed something. Then you go back and reread your original email bec...

There are certain moments in life when you realize things have gotten a little ridiculous. Like when your dog looks at you because you opened a bag of chips, when you walk into a room and immediately forget why you went there, or when you pull up to the gas station, look at the price on the sign, and quietly whisper, “Absolutely not.” Unfortunately, the car still needs gas. And right now, gas is hovering around $4.15 a gallon. Four dollars and fifteen cents. For gasoline. The stuff that goes into my car and then disappears. Honestly, I feel like I should at least get a tiny gift bag when I fill up. Maybe a candle. Perhaps a little cheese plate. At these prices, I expect the gas station attendant to hand me a receipt and say, “Thank you for your purchase. Your personal financial advisor will be in touch.” I drive a Subaru. It is a perfectly nice vehicle, but it is not a Bentley. It does not have a personal chauffeur. It does not serve me champagne. It doesn't even automatically brin...