When I Grow Up February 2, 2010

Still playing dress-up

When you’re 8 years old, precocious, imaginative, terrible at math but “gifted and talented,” as likely to spend your play time choreographing modern dance performances in your bedroom as videotaping your latest episode of “Tiffy and Stacey” (in which your 6-year-old brother plays endearing and fashionable valley girl Tiffy), never for one moment do you think that at the age of 28 you’ll be between waiting jobs, down to your last 25 dollars and asking your parents to help you make it through the next week or two.

No. You thought you’d be an actress on Broadway (or at least just Off-) or a movie director or a magazine editor or a creative director or an author. Or at least you knew you’d be something extraordinary. It was expected. So the moment you admit to yourself that your current situation doesn’t even amount to ordinary is both a breakthrough and a horrible concession.

The bad news is your original path was leading you away from all of the other things that are important to you (stability, comfort, family). The good news it, you don’t have to scrap it entirely. While your instinct is to admit defeat, it’s possible that your game plan just needs a serious reality check and some major alterations.

Jeff and I had a long talk the other night (the f@#$-up scene from “Away We Go” comes to mind – if you haven’t seen this movie yet, do yourself a great favor and check it out) and took a good hard look at our priorities. The next few years are going to happen very quickly, and how we handle them will impact the direction of the rest of our lives. But, you know, no pressure.

What does all of this mean? It means I can still have an affair with my Nikon, but I can’t put it on a pedestal and act as though it’s my answer to financial salvation. This is not to say I still couldn’t make a career of it someday, but I’ve been creatively experimenting since the day I graduated from college and at some point the time has come to sideline your creativity into an extracurricular activity and push yourself in a more responsible direction. I’m not prepared to take sides with the creative life if it means giving up things like – well, children. At this point we’re so broke we can’t even think about getting married.

I won’t ever be a nine-to-five, cubicle dwelling girl. I know this. But there are plenty of positions that, while I never wanted to take them seriously in the past, I can do and probably do well. I’ve spent the good part of 6 years in a restaurant. For the right establishment, I’m sure I’d make a great manager. Hell, I’m strangely good at hospitality in general and I live in a tourist town. There’s no reason I shouldn’t seriously consider these things.

No reason besides my pride. And pride can turn you into a 30-year-old waitress with a shallow bank account and never-ending credit card debt without batting a lash.

For me, for Jeff and for our future, I choose reality. It may be sobering, but it’s only dismal if you make it so.

Here We Go Again… January 22, 2010

365-7 (Self-portrait while driving)

Not getting my “dream job” and quitting the hibachi has done strange and wondrous things to my life. The rapidfire sequence of these two events combined with the arrival of a beautiful piece of camera has set the gears of my mind reeling in such a random, new and intriguing direction that I can’t help but feel the most motivated and energized I’ve felt in a long time.

And frankly, I think it’s thrown Jeff for a bit of a loop, but I’ve already apologized and told him to bear with me.

Suddenly my life has been consumed by the camera, Lightroom and Flickr. By books on professional digital photography, post-production software, starting your own business. By logos and business cards, blogs and web sites. In short, I want something more than I’ve wanted something in a long time. More, quite possibly, than I wanted the job with Yelp (and if this all pans out, I’ll be thanking a certain regional manager for passing on me).

As I’ve tended in the past to throw myself into many a field of interest, I fully expected my parents, Jeff, hell – everyone I know, to be a little dubious my new foray. Surprisingly, though, my mom seemed unfazed, Jeff (after the initial shock) is on board – as much as a full-time grad student can be – and supportive and my sister’s volunteered (after some coercion) to be my next model (my portfolios admittedly thin and the next couple of months will mostly be spent fattening that puppy up).

Meanwhile, there’s a lot riding on this new job at the tapas bar. It has to be my bread and butter through all this (not only supporting me, but creating some capital as well), and I have no idea how lucrative it’s going to be.

In the meantime, though, it’s full steam ahead. Suppose I got tired of watching other people make a living doing something I told myself I loved but could never make a living at. You never know if you don’t try, and while I do plenty of wondering about what my life would be like if I’d taken the safe route, safe just never was for me. I’d like to go out someday knowing I spent my life doing what I loved.

In Which We Go Our Separate Ways January 7, 2010

Okay, so remember that part where I said, “I won’t be quitting my piece of shite day job any time soon?”

I’ve quit my piece of shite day job.

It certainly wasn’t calculated, but MY GOD did it feel good. Having just worked a 52-hour week and having not had a day off since I returned from vacation, I was feeling a little worn down the other morning when I came into the restaurant to find my boss (the owner) and some guy working to re-seal the marble slabs on the hibachi tables. At 11am. WHEN WE OPEN. Seems my boss had little idea of how this project might effect business (as in, every one who walked in was repulsed by the smell of the glue and walked right back out) and hadn’t thought that perhaps work of this nature should be done while the restaurant is CLOSED.

So – I certainly wasn’t going to be waiting any tables that shift. Instead I did the best I could to clean up after their mess and whilst doing so, the boss decides to go on a tirade about… well I’m not entirely sure what it was about. At any rate, he has a fabulous way of degrading, belittling and insulting his hardest workers (I DO recall clearly that at one point he told me I wasn’t worth the nine dollars an hour he pays me) and right then and there I decided to end my stint as a powerless Yes Girl. When he finished his rant by saying he wasn’t very happy with me lately, I responded that I was not very happy with him, either. That we had two very different ideas about how to run a business and how to treat a staff, and that on that note I’d have my two week’s notice for him in writing by the end of the day.

And I did.

Now I ignore him and he avoids me, and things are going a little more smoothly.

Of course this means I’m on a desperate search for a replacement day job. Never fear, though. This wouldn’t be the first time, and I’ve never failed in the past. I’ve got my stack of resumes in hand and someone always needs a great server. And now more than ever I feel the importance of creating my own future.

Escape Plan January 4, 2010

www.wondermark.com

After a brief and somewhat severe tutorial on the proper way to affix tea urn nozzles (after which said nozzle continued to drip because it’s CORRODING FROM THE INSIDE AND NEEDS TO BE REPLACED), something in my overworked, under-appreciated and definitely underpaid little head snapped.

I do not belong here. (Or anywhere within a one-mile radius of here for that matter). Despite all my efforts, this restaurant is going down in flames. It’s dirty beyond my control, disorganized and run by a paranoid manic-depressive with questionable ethics.

Not to mention I’m a writer?

Oh yeah – that. Not only do I write with a vengeance, I’m a musician, a photographer – in short: a creative type. So when 2009 came to a close and the shiny new year presented itself I decided something must be done. And that doing must be taken seriously. Serendipitously, Jeff and I received a new digital SLR for Christmas and that was about as much impetus as I needed to consider pushing past my amateur status as a photographer. My college photojournalism course and the hours spent ceasing time in a darkroom instilled in me all the enchantment with the art that I needed to continue pursuing photography as a hobby. And when I lost my manual SLR in one of many moves since then, I continued to work with photographers and to critique and edit the work of others. And looking back on all of this it begs the question: so why again wouldn’t you consider this as a possible career path??

Well I could think of no good answer to that, and so consider I did. Again – not an easy career, but then are any of the creative fields? So while I won’t be quitting my piece of shite day job anytime soon (sadly), I will be using my free time educating myself, practicing with the new equipment and building up a body of work to eventually create a portfolio in both photography and photo editing.

To get the ball rolling, I’ve created a new blog to focus solely on this endeavor. It’s called 1201 Photography (named for the beloved address in Victorian Village where Jeff and I spent a good deal of time last year) and can be found at http://www.1201photo.wordpress.com – also in the links at right).

My New Year’s Resolution this year was to try harder – at everything I do. I think 1201 is right in line with that, and I hope you enjoy its fruits.

I Just Really Like My Face. January 3, 2010

As I take more seriously the idea of photography and photo editing as a profession, Lightroom and I spend increasing hours together. These are the results of my latest messings around with this particular piece of software (and so far just the point-and-shoot – the digital SLR comes home this week!) Jeff’s been on vacation (avec les chats) so the house has been completely devoid of subjects – hence the wealth of self-portraiture (I mean, Frida Kahlo painted herself all the time and no one’s calling her vain…). Perhaps next I’ll actually read the tutorials on this sucker and really get down to business. (Instructions – meh.)

Of Failed Pursuits… December 28, 2009

Thought I was gone for good, did you?

Hardly, mes amis! But, admittedly, I was on one helluva hiatus. Went exploring in the jungles of Raleigh in hot pursuit of one of the world’s most cunning and elusive beasts: the dream job. After a month and a half in the throes of the hunt, I came within spitting distance of this lovely, defiant creature before she spit on me (turns out this proximity is adequately named), kicked up her dainty heals and disappeared into the great vines and overgrowth that make such positions so difficult to come by.

To be slightly less poetic: I spent a month and a half pouring my heart and free time into a multi-step interview process, made it to the 4th of 5 steps in which I met with my would-be boss in Raleigh, then got the news that they had gone with another candidate. On Christmas Eve.

Suffice it to say it was a rough holiday this year. This job wasn’t just some sweet, cushy, creative position that I would have been incredible at. It was my salvation from poverty (seriously, we’re considering applying for virtual food stamps), from a restaurant that’s sinking faster than the Titanic, from feeling like a heap of wasted talent, personality and intelligence. It was going to get me going in a direction that would also allow me to start my life with Jeff – to get married, to travel, to (not just yet, but someday) have children.

Those lofty ideas took some getting over when the whole thing fell through. After a bit of wallowing (did I mention I’d come down with the mother of all colds in the midst of all this?), I woke up this morning with this thought swimming a luxuriant backstroke in my head: since when have I ever thought success was going to be handed to me in such a way? I think I’ve always known that my path was going to be the rocky, meandering, many-forked detour type. But I’ve never doubted that it would get me where I want to be  – why would I start now? I got a good look at the paved road. It was gloriously smooth and freshly paved and straight as an arrow.

But it wasn’t mine.

So – I’m headed back to Wilmington this afternoon, back to my little apartment and my crazy and often miserable job at the hibachi. But – Jeff received a valuable piece of photographic equipment this year for Christmas, and we’ve both been investing some time in learning the ropes of digital photo editing. And since I won’t be investing every moment of my spare time pursuing jobs for which I’m either over or underqualified, I’ll have plenty of time to build the job I was made for from scratch. No one will be able to say I didn’t try, anyway.

I’ve always been a proponent of fresh starts – out with the old and in with the new in the most cold turkey of fashions – and with the New Year right around the corner, I see no better time for this one.

Here’s to new adventures and indefatigable curiosity in 2010 – and to creating what you want rather than waiting for it to appear.

Uncanny… October 18, 2009

I swear this guy has surveillance set up in my living room.

www.xkcd.com

On Joining the Darkside October 18, 2009

Attempting to look cute to divert attention from the fact that I am stealing the Shock Top beetle.

Dropping roots in North Carolina, I was skeptical of the idea that we might still experience seasons here. Even more skeptical when it was still swimming weather just a week ago.

I’m happy to report: no mas.

Temperatures have made a sharp, downward turn, and although it’s a little late, Fall is most certainly here. We’re finally breaking out the sweaters (never mind everyone back home is breaking out the parkas), burning leaves and shopping for pumpkins.

Admittedly, I’ve been MIA for a couple of weeks, trying to get settled into my new position as the server manager at the hibachi restaurant while simultaneously tackling my grad school application. My workplace is decidedly nutty, at times just plain surreal. But having stuck it out for a couple of weeks, I’m finding it has its endearing moments as well.

It’s the slow season for Wilmington restaurants, the tourists long gone, the patio season winding down. You’ll find this clearly evidenced when you walk into our kitchen to find a hibachi chef with his face submerged in a pot of water attempting to best his own breath-holding record. So the money doesn’t flow as freely as it did just months ago, and the staff is having a hard time staying motivated.

I arrived at this location after just a month at a different one. The server manager at the time was about to bust out to go to South America for a couple of months, and I was the only one with the availability to fill the position. They offered me a raise. Did I mention it’s the slow season? I had to take it.

At first I thought I’d just sold my soul and was paying the price. The staff at the hibachi location are largely young and apathetic, lazy and irresponsible. I fired the first of that breed tonight, and I had imagined it feeling better than it did. I won’t lose sleep over it or anything, but I suppose you hope for one of those shiny movie moments where the heroine finally gets to put her spoiled, self-absorbed counterpart in her place. Instead, I got to leave some meandering message on her voicemail that ended simply in, ”…. we have to let you go, please don’t come in tomorrow.”

And I have to cover her shift on my day off.

Where’s the justice in that? (Don’t start looking, it’s not there). Well, my boss was happy about it, so there’s that. He’s been telling me to fire someone (anyone) from day 1, the idea (his idea) being that this makes me look powerful and will gain the respect (read: fear) of my servers. In the meantime, I can only hope this is the first big step in cleaning up the staff here. I’ve hired two older servers who actually need the work, and not just on weekends. But I’ve never done this before, and I certainly don’t have a manual or anyone sitting on my shoulder telling me how it’s done.

I’ve seen management done well, and I’ve seen it done poorly. And that’s all I’ve got to go on.

In the meantime, I’m cool with being nicknamed “OCD” (something to do with my obsession with the napkins being rolled tightly – thank you, Philip, whom I also used to make fun of for this), and with “Grandma” cooking in the kitchen even on busy nights, and with the lone computer at the server station (actually, wait – no, I’m not cool with that, and I’m pushing for another). And I’m starting to really like the chefs and their crazy performances and the busboys and their tejano singing and the weekend hostess who is typically sweet and demure, but can be a lion when she fires up her Chinese to argue with the kitchen manager (and who tells me that from behind I look just like an Asian girl).

It’s not so bad.

One night during my first week, I came home from a particularly busy night and cried. And cried some more. I was convinced I’d made a huge mistake, and that I was going to have to find yet another job and continue to struggle.

I don’t want to wait tables forever. I don’t even want to wait them for another year. But the situation certainly is not as bad as I initially surmised, and it looks like I’m there to stay. For now.

In the meantime, all of this gives me the impetus to work harder than ever on my grad school application. Not only do I need to be accepted, I need scholarship money, and I need a job.  I’ll be wrapping up the first part of my manuscript this week, so it’s just a matter of coming up with another brilliant, cohesive and deeply meaningful 15 pages or so.

Yep.

No problem.

~a

Triumph… September 28, 2009

… would’ve made a great name. But we went with Pippin instead. (Also answers to the names of: Pipsqueak, Slim, and Ears McGee)

Pip

In Which We Try to do Good. And Fail Miserably. September 25, 2009

Fully aware that certain combinations can lead to regrets (drinking+texting, lamenting+ice cream), I try not to speak or write when furious. At least not at first, and not anything the  public will ever see. In the past, such actions have only led to the firm implantation of my foot in my mouth.

BUT.

Here’s today’s story anyway. Hopefully coherently written and not overly cruel.

For quite some time now, J and I have been contemplating adopting a little friend for us and Sophie. We were hoping to bring a male kitten into Sophie’s world before she’s old and bitter and hates everything new. Today, for some reason (okay, yes, we were scouring the “pet” category on Craig’s List which leaves nothing to blame but our own compassion), we were both overcome by the desire to get out and see some of the candidates in person. We looked at each other, we looked at the clock. We said, “Let’s do it.” And, giddy and excited, we grabbed Sophie’s old cat carrier (just in case, we told ourselves) and ran out the door.

The Humane Society is not far from where we live, and after a short drive, we pulled into their parking lot, promised ourselves to try to remain level headed, and in we went. I was surprised at how few cats were currently housed there. A few adults wandered the great cat enclosure they provide… and then there was Harpo. This 3-month-old black and white male kitten was playful and lively, and I liked him even though he was a little older than what we’d had in mind. Then, I picked him up. Harpo cuddled against my shoulder and placed his tiny soft paw against my cheek, then my lips. And I was ensnared. Hook. Line. Sinker.

Just in case (again), we decided to think on it, and drove down the road to the Animal Control center to look as well. There we found more adult cats and one tiny, tiny black kitten. Who was psychotic. We’re talking demonic possession. J found it entertaining to attempt to play with her without losing any blood. I was ready to go back and see Harpo again.

So we jump back in the car, drive back to the Humane Society, and revisit our little guy there. Everyone behind the adoption desk is excited to see us again. Harpo’s little brother had been adopted the day before, and the staff was rooting for him to find a new home, too. We filled out some paperwork, and one of the women was gathering together some toys and food to get Harpo started in his new home.

Then. The worst.

They called out apartment management office to check on the pet policies where we live. Which would have been fine. Our place allows 2 cats in one apartment. But then this woman goes on to ask if we needs to pay a deposit, and if so how much, and if so, do we need to pay it before we bring home a new animal. The answers: yes, $200 and yes. $200 for EACH ANIMAL. Whether it’s a 10 lb cat or a 150 lb lab. $200.

We’d already put down the $200 nonrefundable for Sophie. We thought THAT was insane. We also thought that this fee would cover another pet, and that we’d only need to tack on additional pet rent (also b.s. if you ask me). Not so, apparently.

The woman at the Humane Society told us we should just go get that “squared away” and that we could come back for Harpo the next day. We said “sure,” and walked out as if everything would be fine, knowing fully that we could not afford another $200 we’d never see again.

Fuming and dejected, the drive home was quiet and sullen.

Had that woman not called our property management and asked specifically if WE had paid for another cat to live here,  no one would’ve known the difference. He woud’ve had an amazing home and loving parents, and isn’t that what the Humane Society really wants for their animals? Was it not enough for them to see that animals are allowed in our homes? I know they don’t want to see adopted animals come right back to them. I get that. But there was no opportunity to defend ourselves, no chance to say, “Look. He’s going to be fine with us. Better than fine. Why the EFF are you ratting us out, you paranoid witch?!?”

(Remember how I said I don’t speak or write when I’m really angry?)

Needless to say, we’re still a one-cat household.

~a