Fear & Loathing Part II
My part-time/summer/supplementary job opportunities are getting slimmer by the day. This means that I will have a lot of time. In a moment of bright-eyed earnestness, I told John, “I will do so much writing this summer!!!!!!! I can finish my novel!!!!!!!!!!” (Yes, all of those exclamation marks are necessary.)
And then I stopped and thought–oh shit. I will have to write.
Total. Terror. Ensues. The what-ifs have kicked in. I will have to push through it. Make use of time, a gift in some ways. But, at the same time, I realized I have run out of excuses that justify why I don’t write.
So.
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My life on the dole
I’m looking for summer work to fill in the cashflow gaps that happen when you only get paid during the academic year.
Here was my most recent response to a position for a barista gig.
Dear XXXX,Please consider me for the open barista position at your lovely little store for the following reasons:
1) I drink more coffee than you do. No really. I do. It’s 10 a.m. and I’ve had 32 oz. and I’m nowhere near done for the day. True story: My current students notice when I don’t have a coffee mug in hand and quiver in fear on those days.
2) I can chat up anyone, provided the other person likes sound items of pop culture, which, having been to your place, I venture happens about 90% of the time. The other 10% I’m pretty good about faking. From Gossip Girl to the films of Terry Gilliam, Ulysses to Twilight, I’m on it and I can spin it like you’d never believe. That’s why having an MFA in creative writing pays off–I can bullshit all day long.
3) Yes, I will up your starving artist population. I will write poems about patrons and coworkers alike. I will immortalize your store in prose, one day, when I’m famous, you know, after I die.
4) I’m like Martha Stewart on acid. Or maybe just like Amy Sedaris. I like the domestic arts, and will knit you cozies, bring you fresh basil and zucchini from my community garden plot, and nom on anything provided it has butter and cream in it. (Some vegan substitutions are acceptable.) Bonus points for cardamom and/or lemon curd.
5) I was, as I alluded above, born in Northern Va., and have lived in D.C. proper since 2002. I try not to cross the river unless I have to these days. (Oh specifically? Annandale. Go Atoms. Sigh.)
6) Finally, a viable reason: A long time ago I worked for that behemoth of all coffee companies, ThatWhichShallNotBeNamedBucks. (I was young, stupid, and in need of free beans–it was the late 90s in Northern Virginia. What was I supposed to do?) That experience was, however, when that corporation deemed it appropriate to train baristas on how to craft espresso so that the crema was, well, creamy, and the heart of the shot had notes of caramel, not burnt grinds. That was when we still had taste testings of different continent’s beans, and tested each other blindfolded on where coffees came from.
I can’t promise that I’m still batting .500 on the tasting front, but I will damn sure try. I can still make a mean cappuccino, I know the hiss of when the milk is almost ready and the foam separates slightly from the rest of the steamed milk, and I know what espresso should taste like.I realize I have one shot against me–I will not be able to work 30 hours a week during the fall, since I teach at a local university. My schedule in July means two-to-three days a week I will not be able to work mornings. However, I don’t rule out being able to work weekends or around my schedule in the fall. I can start May 18. I’m happy to work mornings, evenings, weekends, whatever, outside of that period in July.
With that, I hope I’ve at least entertained you. But really, you should at least consider me. Call me. Say hi. Check out my mad hot skills with a portafilter and a steam wand, that sort of thing.
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Mo(ve)ment
In movies, the moment hits as a camera indicates movement. Someone appears or disappears on an escalator. A camera does a 360 around the person experiencing the epiphanic moment. Things explode. Music climaxes. Sometimes the moment is good. Sometimes the moment is bad. But everyone knows what the moment means and then everything progresses towards being resolved.
I can sometimes see when some of my students have these moments, and as the old cliche goes, the light goes on. I love those moments.
Usually I see these moments once time has passed, and I can make the movie of my life make sense, or at least aesthetically pleasing. The soundtrack supports the action, sometime providing a wry sense of humor.
Rarely do I know when the moment happens as its happening. This time I did. At least when you look back at something you can make sense of it and revise it so it fits a greater context. Justify randomness and chaos within whatever framework gets you through the day. But if I had been in a movie, the music would have gone fuzzy and loud and the world would have gone white. Life is not so dramatically choreographed.
I just know that the moment happened. I do not know what it means, or why I feel like the bottom has fallen out yet once again. I know at some point I will look back and see this as a moment of change, and be able to reframe it positively, therapeutically, maybe even as impetus to something great.
But now, but now, but now. Now it’s not like that. But I don’t know what it is.
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Snapshot from Friday Night
On Friday night, two of my friends and I went to a movie, gorged ourselves on doughy things and fake cheese products, and then went to a bar. We were going to go dancing, but at that point it was late(ish), we were tired, and we are all old now. We managed to find a few stools at the bar, and settled in for a few rounds.
I can’t imagine much what we look like to people who don’t know us, but, as a reasonable, rational human being, I assume that we looked like three women chatting away, laughing hysterically, and generally minding our own business. Maybe that’s why we are douchebag magnets. We were not batting eyelashes, we were not scoping the room for something better–we were three women hanging out with each other.
Enter drunk dude who nearly pushes me off my stool. Rather than letting me sit seething with rage (which is what happens), my friend V. politely pokes his friend and asks his friend to keep his buddy in check. His friend immediately apologizes and is generally pleasant. Until those dudes leave, and the friend returns with another friend. Who tries to chat us up.
Guys. Do. Not. Interrupt. Girls. Night. Out.
This guy was That Guy. After the semi-nice guy asking about our evenings, we explained it was Old Lady Night and that involves sitting, complaining about our arthritis and knitting. (Really, it was a nice way of saying, leave, brohemes, but apparently our subtleties were lost on them.)
That Guy turns to me. (Of course he does.)
That Guy: Are you in college here?
Me: (snicker) No.
That Guy: What do you do?
Me: I’m a professor. (It’s at times like this I don’t get into the subtle nuances of my job, such as that I’m really a full-time temporary contract-based instructor.)
That Guy: Whoa? Really? What do you teach?
Me: Writing. (Notice I’m not offering additional info or asking questions. This should be a signal to back the fuck up and let me drink my drink.)
That Guy: You have a PhD?
Me: MFA. (And, for the record, I could have gotten a PhD. I am of age where it would not be unlikely for me to have an PhD. But I don’t.)
That Guy: Huh?
Me: A Master’s in Fine Arts in Creative Writing. (At this point I’m waiting for the stupid, “oh, I have a novel in my desk drawer” convo. Oh, sadly, not.)
That Guy: Don’t they teach writing in high school now? I mean they did at mine. I couldn’t respect you in the classroom. You look too young.
Me: (Raising an eyebrow.) You would after I failed you on your first paper
Lessons:
- Don’t assume three attractive women want your company.
- Don’t assume someone’s age. EVER.
- Don’t fucking talk to me.
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In lieu of real content
The current project. I love the Rowan Big Wool yarn — sadly I miscalculated how much I needed and think I need at least two more skeins of a discontinued color! I should be able to find it online though…
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In lieu of real content
The current project. I love the Rowan Big Wool yarn — sadly I miscalculated how much I needed and think I need at least two more skeins of a discontinued color! I should be able to find it online though…
Filed under: Uncategorized | Leave a Comment
Riding on Wet Pavement
It’s been eons since I biked anywhere. Biked frequently in the fall namely to burn off the excess anxiety caused by The Barbecue, but since then have been reliant on my own to feet rather than my own two wheels. I met a friend for lunch today, and realized that the bus doesn’t run frequently on Sundays, that I didn’t want to take a cab, that I didn’t particularly want to walk in the drizzle. So I decided to ride in the rain.
(For any DC-readers, not that I think I have any right now, to get from Dupont to Georgetown is stupid complicated if you’re not on a bike. I think that’s true of most places in DC–but I’ll save the public transit rants for another time.)
Yes, I ended up a little cold and wet, but taking less-traveled roads through Georgetown gave me some much needed brain-off-time. Trees are starting to bloom even in the gray. Today’s rain felt more like spring rain than the past few days, despite not much change in temperatures. I’ve been thinking of getting a new (mmkay, used but new to me) bike for awhile, and this just confirmed it. Time to get back on it. Time to brave rain, cars, potholes, hills.
I didn’t grow up with a bike. I had one, but it wasn’t allowed out of the driveway. (Do your own analysis of symbols of freedom, Stockholm Syndrom, whatever… I’ll save it for an essay later.) I didn’t really learn to ride until I bought a bike and started commuting to work downtown on it. New Hampshire Ave in rushhour traffic was a quick way to learn. I loved how quickly I calmed down after long days with bosses I hated. Even though the weather won’t change much for awhile in DC, I’ve got to get back into the habit.
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What I did over my spring break
Worked on the purple-pink sleeveless sweater shown on a model holding a guitar. Mine is in a pretty light gray wool.
Made this. The loaves are cooling as I write this. I’m a little nervous since I let it rise too long (by a few hours!) at the first round. They look yummy and smell fantastic. I’ll also make the rosemary-olive bread tomorrow or Saturday. That shit is phenomenal with a bit of olive oil or some pungent, creamy robiola due latte.
Supposedly caught up on work. (Ha!) (Whatever, I still have a few days.)
Read a lot about vintage cookbooks and what they signify. Ok, that was part of work, but also kind of cool and spurred me to start looking for vintage cookbooks. Yay, Jell-O molds and gender roles!
Generally questioned what the hell I’m doing with my life. Seems like there’s a lot of that going around these days.
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The Frankenpinky Chronicles
While not quite the book of body parts that the narrator of Fight Club finds, I’ve moved finger-related nonsense over here.
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Saw an orthopedic surgeon today, ostensibly as a precursor for a fine needle aspiration of my knuckle; this means a doctor shoves a needle into your bone to get a sample of the marrow to see if it’s infected. Barf.
Said orthopedic surgeon, however, said hold up. Did some x-rays that show no infection (as compared to the MRI which showed some swelling but no direct infection but also something that could possible be construed as infection). He’s going to talk to my I.D. person, and told me to take a bunch of ibuprofen in the meantime to see if that reduces the swelling. He’s hesitant to do such a complicated, possible harm-inducing procedure without due cause. (So is my I.D. doc, but she thought it was necessary.)
So, duelling docs? More questions? Sigh. I am happy that for now, I didn’t have to have my finger cut open (or worse yet–drilled into)
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