"A total breakdown in the kitchen."

I am in Santa Barbara for the weekend and staying at my parents' place, where I have been joined by one relative and two family friends, one of whom is having a birthday. My parents were going to take us all out to some nice restaurant, and the birthday girl voted for lobster. (OK, so I encouraged her.) So we went to the only restuarant in Santa Barbara that offers live Maine lobster.

I called to make the reservation for 7:15, which I changed to 7:30 at the restaurant's suggestion. The six of us arrived at 7:30. Our table wasn't ready. The bar was full. So we stood in the aisle, getting bumped into, for twenty-five minutes. Just as we were about to be seated, an irate man pushed forward, exclaiming that he had been waiting an hour for a table.

We were seated next to the open grill station/wait station-- the part of the kitchen adorned with festoons of paper noting everyone's orders, which the waiters would go to, check, then pick up the matching plates. As the evening wore on, this turned into an impromptu crisis management center, or perhaps lack-of-crisis-management center, with semi-hysterical waiters clustered around, patting each other soothingly on the back and giving thousand-yard stares to the plates.

After a long wait, our waitress, who seemed to have been attacked and mugged by her uniform, came over to take our drink orders. She was a pretty, slim blonde woman, but her too-tight black pants were riding low and her too-tight black blouse was riding high, so that a bulging roll of fat (which was just about the only fat on the poor woman's body) was squished out and exposed between them. It was strangely hypnotic.

After another long wait, the drinks arrived. Sensing more long waits in the future, we quickly placed our orders. It was then that the waitress informed us that they were out of broccoli, jambalaya, and lobster. Annoyed, the birthday girl switched her order to the mixed seafood grill, I switched mine to the steamed Dungeness crab, and my visitig relative ordered the salmon.

About half an hour later, the waitress returned. "I'm really sorry about this, but there's a party in the back and they ate a lot... Um..." We all glared at her, guessing what was coming. "Um... we're out of the crab and the mixed seafood grill. I'll let you think about what you want to switch to!"

"I want to talk to the manager," said Dad ominously.

"I'll let her know," said the waitress, and fled.

Fifteen minutes later, neither waitress nor manager had arrived at our table. The crisis station at the grill was in full force, with waitress comforting each other and consulting in great confusion over the order slips. Dad got up and stomped over to demand to see the manager. At that moment, our waitress directed him to the manager, and he and the manager vanished into a back room together, and our waitress returned to the table.

"We're out of salmon," said the waitress, looking ready to duck. "But you don't have to switch!" she assured my visiting relative. "We do have one plate of salmon left. Just not enough for the seafood grill."

"Can you make the seafood grill without the salmon?" asked the birthday girl. "You do have shrimp and scallops, right?"

"Um... yes," said the waitress, rather doubtfully.

"Are you out of the cioppino?" I asked.

"Oh no, we've got some of that left."

"OK, I'll have that."

The waitress split, and Dad returned with a report. As he had been entering the office, another customer barged in, swearing and bellowing, "I'm not paying for this meal! You can call the police to chase me out of the restaurant!"

"We're not calling the police," said the manager.

"Everyone at my table is finishing dessert, and I never got my entree," continued the irate customer.

"I'm so sorry," said the manager. "I'm afraid we've had a total breakdown in the kitchen."

She comped both angry men the meals for their entire table, apologized profusely, gave them a seventy-five dollar gift certificate, then came over to our table to apologize and explain. Apparently the restaurant runs on half-staff on Sunday nights, but they had forgotten that the holiday on Monday made this particular Sunday the equivalent of Saturday, which is their busiest night. "I've been here for five years, and I've never seen anything like this," she said.

The waitress appeared with our meals. The visiting relative looked down at his plate. "Why do I have rice and mashed potatoes? I ordered steamed vegetables."

"We're out of everything," explained the waitress. "Vegetables, baked potatoes, cole slaw... I just grabbed whatever we had left, and threw it on your plates."

And then came the most unexpected twist of all: the food was really good.

"A total breakdown in the kitchen."

I am in Santa Barbara for the weekend and staying at my parents' place, where I have been joined by one relative and two family friends, one of whom is having a birthday. My parents were going to take us all out to some nice restaurant, and the birthday girl voted for lobster. (OK, so I encouraged her.) So we went to the only restuarant in Santa Barbara that offers live Maine lobster.

I called to make the reservation for 7:15, which I changed to 7:30 at the restaurant's suggestion. The six of us arrived at 7:30. Our table wasn't ready. The bar was full. So we stood in the aisle, getting bumped into, for twenty-five minutes. Just as we were about to be seated, an irate man pushed forward, exclaiming that he had been waiting an hour for a table.

We were seated next to the open grill station/wait station-- the part of the kitchen adorned with festoons of paper noting everyone's orders, which the waiters would go to, check, then pick up the matching plates. As the evening wore on, this turned into an impromptu crisis management center, or perhaps lack-of-crisis-management center, with semi-hysterical waiters clustered around, patting each other soothingly on the back and giving thousand-yard stares to the plates.

After a long wait, our waitress, who seemed to have been attacked and mugged by her uniform, came over to take our drink orders. She was a pretty, slim blonde woman, but her too-tight black pants were riding low and her too-tight black blouse was riding high, so that a bulging roll of fat (which was just about the only fat on the poor woman's body) was squished out and exposed between them. It was strangely hypnotic.

After another long wait, the drinks arrived. Sensing more long waits in the future, we quickly placed our orders. It was then that the waitress informed us that they were out of broccoli, jambalaya, and lobster. Annoyed, the birthday girl switched her order to the mixed seafood grill, I switched mine to the steamed Dungeness crab, and my visitig relative ordered the salmon.

About half an hour later, the waitress returned. "I'm really sorry about this, but there's a party in the back and they ate a lot... Um..." We all glared at her, guessing what was coming. "Um... we're out of the crab and the mixed seafood grill. I'll let you think about what you want to switch to!"

"I want to talk to the manager," said Dad ominously.

"I'll let her know," said the waitress, and fled.

Fifteen minutes later, neither waitress nor manager had arrived at our table. The crisis station at the grill was in full force, with waitress comforting each other and consulting in great confusion over the order slips. Dad got up and stomped over to demand to see the manager. At that moment, our waitress directed him to the manager, and he and the manager vanished into a back room together, and our waitress returned to the table.

"We're out of salmon," said the waitress, looking ready to duck. "But you don't have to switch!" she assured my visiting relative. "We do have one plate of salmon left. Just not enough for the seafood grill."

"Can you make the seafood grill without the salmon?" asked the birthday girl. "You do have shrimp and scallops, right?"

"Um... yes," said the waitress, rather doubtfully.

"Are you out of the cioppino?" I asked.

"Oh no, we've got some of that left."

"OK, I'll have that."

The waitress split, and Dad returned with a report. As he had been entering the office, another customer barged in, swearing and bellowing, "I'm not paying for this meal! You can call the police to chase me out of the restaurant!"

"We're not calling the police," said the manager.

"Everyone at my table is finishing dessert, and I never got my entree," continued the irate customer.

"I'm so sorry," said the manager. "I'm afraid we've had a total breakdown in the kitchen."

She comped both angry men the meals for their entire table, apologized profusely, gave them a seventy-five dollar gift certificate, then came over to our table to apologize and explain. Apparently the restaurant runs on half-staff on Sunday nights, but they had forgotten that the holiday on Monday made this particular Sunday the equivalent of Saturday, which is their busiest night. "I've been here for five years, and I've never seen anything like this," she said.

The waitress appeared with our meals. The visiting relative looked down at his plate. "Why do I have rice and mashed potatoes? I ordered steamed vegetables."

"We're out of everything," explained the waitress. "Vegetables, baked potatoes, cole slaw... I just grabbed whatever we had left, and threw it on your plates."

And then came the most unexpected twist of all: the food was really good.

Rock climbing and predicting fear

I did this on Friday, but didn't get a chance to write up until now.

You have to pass a test to climb with ropes at Rockcreation, so I had James teach me and coach me, and I was still petrified when I showed up. I am not so good at tests where I have to perform with someone watching me. (Tests where no one's looking over your shoulder, like the written sort, don't bother me.) In fact, I think I have a mild phobia about them. Also, I had expected that they would watch me tie knots and so forth before they let me actually belay someone, to make sure that I knew how to do it before they actually let me hang on to someone suspended twenty-six feet up. But no! They had me tie one figure-eight knot on to James' belt, and then belay him.

I did not actually let him hit the ground. I just want to get that out of the way first. But I did mix up "On belay" vs. "belay on," and I let him drop too far, and the equipment they gave me was different from what I'd been practicing on, and I think I also got points deducted for looking petrified. So I flunked the belay test. Like I said, I have a problem with performance anxiety, which stems from a fear of doing things wrong under a hostile gaze and then being publicly informed that I did everything wrong. (I blame this on my father's unique method of teaching me to do various things-- show me once, then scream-- which resulted in me either never learning how to do them, or else learning several years later from someone else. Which just goes to show that insight alone is insufficient to change patterns, but I digress.) Anyway, I almost burst into tears, but recovered when I realized that I was still allowed to climb, just not belay-- especially since we weren't going to have me belay without a lot more practice anyway.

I really liked climbing with ropes. The knowledge that I was going to be caught if I fell took away a lot of the fear factor, and made me much more willing to take chances than when I was bouldering, and knew that if I missed the hold, I would just drop-- on to a mat and not very far, but a drop is a drop. There's always the possibility of acquiring a nasty joint injury. But I knew James wasn't going to drop me, and the book on climbing he loaned me said that no modern rope had ever broken just from catching a falling climber. I can't say that I did a huge amount of looking down at the floor, but I did look down to see where my feet were, and it was surprisingly un-scary.

I climbed several 5.5 and 5.6 routes, and one 5.7, on an eight metre (26 foot) wall. No falls where I had to be caught (one where I hung on with my hands), though there were a couple times when the extra balance I was getting off the harness might have been decisive. Unlike the bouldering experience, I didn't feel like I'd been hit by a truck the day after. I wonder if the hit-by-truck feeling was just because of the several times I fell and hung on by my hands, or because bouldering is physically harder, or the routes I was doing this time were substantially easier. Usually one doesn't condition the muscles in a new sport that quickly.

It occurs to me that the amount of fear one feels over any given activity or state is some combination of two conditions and how much weight you place on each:

1. Likelihood of undesirable outcome.

2. Degree of unpleasantness of undesirable outcome.

To take the examples of bouldering, wall-climbing, and belay testing:

Bouldering has a high likelihood of undesirable outcome # 1, which is falling. The degree of unpleasantness of falling itself is low (for me.) It has a moderate likelihood of undesirable outcome # 2 leading off of # 1, which is a bad landing causing some minor to moderate injury. Undesirable outcome # 2 has a high degree of unpleasantness, as far as I'm concerned. In other words, there's a low-to-moderate chance of something which I would regard as really bad, ie, knee or ankle twist or sprain, which evokes a moderate degree of nervousness over the activity.

Possible bad outcomes of climbing with ropes are the height itself (if you're really afraid of heights), falling and being caught (if you're afraid of falling), getting stuck halfway up too afraid to go farther, and taking a serious fall. As far as I'm concerned, the first two have little unpleasantness factor and the second two are very unlikely. Hence ropes = good time.

The test, however, had high degrees of both how much I would hate the bad outcomes, and how likely the bad outcome would be. Fear of poor performance, knowledge of likelihood of poor performance caused by a combination of lack of skills and nerves, concluding in bad outcome which then fuels future performance anxiety and poor performance... this is quite a historic problem for me.

The only thing I've found that helps is to improve my skills via practice until I get some good outcomes under my belt, at which point I am more convinced that a good outcome is possible and hence am more confident, and so forth. This has worked with public speaking and asking for raises and jobs, so since the skills involved in belaying at a beginning level are not all that complex, I'm guessing I will eventually manage to pass the test.

In retrospect, I have to say, I am impressed that James didn't run out of there screaming when the Rockcreation woman said, "And drop off the wall without warning."

Rock climbing and predicting fear

I did this on Friday, but didn't get a chance to write up until now.

You have to pass a test to climb with ropes at Rockcreation, so I had James teach me and coach me, and I was still petrified when I showed up. I am not so good at tests where I have to perform with someone watching me. (Tests where no one's looking over your shoulder, like the written sort, don't bother me.) In fact, I think I have a mild phobia about them. Also, I had expected that they would watch me tie knots and so forth before they let me actually belay someone, to make sure that I knew how to do it before they actually let me hang on to someone suspended twenty-six feet up. But no! They had me tie one figure-eight knot on to James' belt, and then belay him.

I did not actually let him hit the ground. I just want to get that out of the way first. But I did mix up "On belay" vs. "belay on," and I let him drop too far, and the equipment they gave me was different from what I'd been practicing on, and I think I also got points deducted for looking petrified. So I flunked the belay test. Like I said, I have a problem with performance anxiety, which stems from a fear of doing things wrong under a hostile gaze and then being publicly informed that I did everything wrong. (I blame this on my father's unique method of teaching me to do various things-- show me once, then scream-- which resulted in me either never learning how to do them, or else learning several years later from someone else. Which just goes to show that insight alone is insufficient to change patterns, but I digress.) Anyway, I almost burst into tears, but recovered when I realized that I was still allowed to climb, just not belay-- especially since we weren't going to have me belay without a lot more practice anyway.

I really liked climbing with ropes. The knowledge that I was going to be caught if I fell took away a lot of the fear factor, and made me much more willing to take chances than when I was bouldering, and knew that if I missed the hold, I would just drop-- on to a mat and not very far, but a drop is a drop. There's always the possibility of acquiring a nasty joint injury. But I knew James wasn't going to drop me, and the book on climbing he loaned me said that no modern rope had ever broken just from catching a falling climber. I can't say that I did a huge amount of looking down at the floor, but I did look down to see where my feet were, and it was surprisingly un-scary.

I climbed several 5.5 and 5.6 routes, and one 5.7, on an eight metre (26 foot) wall. No falls where I had to be caught (one where I hung on with my hands), though there were a couple times when the extra balance I was getting off the harness might have been decisive. Unlike the bouldering experience, I didn't feel like I'd been hit by a truck the day after. I wonder if the hit-by-truck feeling was just because of the several times I fell and hung on by my hands, or because bouldering is physically harder, or the routes I was doing this time were substantially easier. Usually one doesn't condition the muscles in a new sport that quickly.

It occurs to me that the amount of fear one feels over any given activity or state is some combination of two conditions and how much weight you place on each:

1. Likelihood of undesirable outcome.

2. Degree of unpleasantness of undesirable outcome.

To take the examples of bouldering, wall-climbing, and belay testing:

Bouldering has a high likelihood of undesirable outcome # 1, which is falling. The degree of unpleasantness of falling itself is low (for me.) It has a moderate likelihood of undesirable outcome # 2 leading off of # 1, which is a bad landing causing some minor to moderate injury. Undesirable outcome # 2 has a high degree of unpleasantness, as far as I'm concerned. In other words, there's a low-to-moderate chance of something which I would regard as really bad, ie, knee or ankle twist or sprain, which evokes a moderate degree of nervousness over the activity.

Possible bad outcomes of climbing with ropes are the height itself (if you're really afraid of heights), falling and being caught (if you're afraid of falling), getting stuck halfway up too afraid to go farther, and taking a serious fall. As far as I'm concerned, the first two have little unpleasantness factor and the second two are very unlikely. Hence ropes = good time.

The test, however, had high degrees of both how much I would hate the bad outcomes, and how likely the bad outcome would be. Fear of poor performance, knowledge of likelihood of poor performance caused by a combination of lack of skills and nerves, concluding in bad outcome which then fuels future performance anxiety and poor performance... this is quite a historic problem for me.

The only thing I've found that helps is to improve my skills via practice until I get some good outcomes under my belt, at which point I am more convinced that a good outcome is possible and hence am more confident, and so forth. This has worked with public speaking and asking for raises and jobs, so since the skills involved in belaying at a beginning level are not all that complex, I'm guessing I will eventually manage to pass the test.

In retrospect, I have to say, I am impressed that James didn't run out of there screaming when the Rockcreation woman said, "And drop off the wall without warning."