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How to Remember the World is Big while Riding the Small World Ride

It’s not all too often that you find out someone you know is doing something truly, mind-blowingly admirable in his or her life.

And I’m not talking about having all the Christmas shopping done by Halloween or filing taxes by the end of February.

I’m talking about something remarkable.  Something challenging.  Something that would push you to the brink of your limits so quickly that you would never even toy with the notion of doing it yourself.

In fact, it makes you uncomfortable just reading about it.

I have a friend, and his name is David.  Actually, I’m not positive I can call him a “friend” as opposed to just an acquaintance since we don’t talk very often, but he keeps popping into my life at random, unexpected times, and the sheer happenstance of one such occurrence makes me want to refer to him as “friend.”

He lived in my tight-knit dorm during my freshman year at college in Ohio.  In fact, he was probably one of the evacuees during the Great Metal-in-the-Microwave Debacle.  After I quit school to take my western America  road trip, we pretty much lost touch.

Fast forward a couple of years to the time I was living in a small off-the-interstate town in south Georgia, of all places.  I mean, it literally was the place where people stopped to get something to eat on their way to Florida.  I know this because I brought them their steak and their peanuts and sang, Fried chicken, country hog, it’s your birthday – yeehaw! to them on their birthdays and swept up their peanut shells long after they left for the mystical land of Orlando to don Mickey Mouse ears and ride the Small World ride (undoubtedly getting the song stuck in their heads for days) and have far more interesting characters sing them far more traditional birthday songs than the one I got paid $2.13 an hour to sing.

But, if you’re lucky and I really like you, I’ll sing it to you on your birthday for free.

So anyway, I was at the “mall” in this south Georgia town with a friend one day when she dragged me into the Hallmark store (Rachel is a Hallmark addict and I love her for it) so she could pick up some new cards.  And there, perusing the shelves as though he had some business being at the Hallmark store in Middle-of-Nowhere Georgia, was David!

“David?!  What the hell are you doing in Georgia??”  I have a really warm way of welcoming people back into my life.

It turns out he was there to teach, and it’s a crazy small world, and blah blah blah, and yes, we should definitely get together for coffee and here’s my number so we can catch up and let’s be sure to not speak to each other again until I move to North Carolina and you move to Texas and we find each other via mutual friendships on Facebook.  Okay?

Okay.

And it’s via Facebook that I recently learned David is doing this truly incredible, inspiring thing in his life.

Are you ready for it?

Okay, here it is:

He’s walking the Appalachian Trail.  All ~2,200 miles of it.

Now, if you don’t know what that is or how big that is or what that means as far as sheer impressive distance, it’s this:

From the state of Georgia to the state of Maine.

That’s 14 states.

And he’s walking.

Across ridgelines and over mountains and through rivers and facing snow and rain and heat and mosquitos and bears and carrying everything he needs on his back like a turtle except he’s not a turtle – he’s a person – and he’s really doing this.  Alone.

For 5 months.

Nearly half a year of his life will be devoted to this thing.

You can read about David’s journey here on his blog, and I highly encourage you to do so because people just don’t do this every day, you know.  Sure, some people hop on the trail here and there and call themselves accomplished, but the thru-hikers are a special crowd.  You could read A Walk in the Woods by renowned travel writer Bill Bryson for a comical glimpse of what this entails, but even ol’ Billy didn’t do the whole thing.  Not even close.

Seriously?  How blown is your mind right now?  Because mine’s pretty blown.

And I hope he doesn’t mind that I’m writing this because he didn’t know I was going to do it.  But that’s what he gets for friending me on Facebook.

And I don’t care how small we sometimes think the world might be with our cars and trains and planes and phones and internet and everyone staying connected all the time because, when you’re walking across it, experiencing the grime on your face and the blisters on your feet, you just might finally come to realize that it’s not really as small as you’d thought.  It’s really not small at all.

Love the Girl Who Holds the World in a Paper Cup

Drink it up.

You know, I really don’t know much of anything.

What I do know is that sometimes I feel so lost, so clumsy, stumbling around like some idiot in the dark when the light switch is right in front of my face and there are so many paths I could take and there’s no one standing around with a map or directions telling me, Here – take this road.  And then I just get overwhelmed with indecision and sit in the middle of the intersection to pout until I get run over by an 18-wheeler.

But does anyone ever not feel that way?  (If you don’t, please don’t tell me.)

What I do know is that I probably shouldn’t attempt to write blog posts at two in the morning when I’m a) buzzing from a busy night of waiting tables, b) tipsy from a glass of Jack and coke, c) drunk off of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and cold, cold milk (thanks to a very special person whose underwear I happen to clean), or d) all of the above.

What I do know is that many of my days currently revolve around food.  Whether I’m planning it, cooking it, serving it, or eating it, I’m starting to feel like food is consuming my life.  And really – shouldn’t it be the other way around?

(Don’t worry.  I’m not sure what that means, either.)

What I do know is I have two of the cutest dogs that have ever walked the face of this planet and they’re so, so lucky because if they weren’t, I might have had a harder time getting over the fact that they destroyed my calla lilies today.

What I do know is that a girl at the bar totally made my night tonight when she walked up to me, slipped me a $20, and said, I’ve been a waitress before.  I know how it is.  You’ve been awesome.  I know my boyfriend’s a handful.

Her words made me feel really great.

And also a little slutty.

What I do know is that I can’t keep trying to measure my accomplishments (or lack thereof) against other people my age.  Because, the thing is, who am I to put a weight on accomplishments?  Education, income, career, lifestyle… they might all affect how “accomplished” an individual feels, but happiness – in my humble little opinion – is the only true measure of success.

And I’m talking about genuine happiness.  Not just the face you put on at the class reunion.

What I do know is that Catherine is a “blog friend” over on Simply Solo.  Her father, who must be the wisest man on the planet, expelled to her these words of wisdom while she was in the throes of a quarter life crisis: “We’re all lost, Catherine. Don’t you think I’m lost? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

What I do know is that I don’t know what I’m doing.  Not in the slightest.

But then, if it’s true that most of us really are lost, then neither do you.

And that makes me feel just a little bit better.

*Title from Danny’s Song, by Kenny Loggins.

No More the Meek and Mild Subservients, We!

When one of my old college roommates (and good friend) Marisa (I might have mentioned her yesterday) wrote me a couple of days ago insisting that I simply “must blog for International Women’s Day on the 8th of March or it will be a crime! A crime!” my response was obvious:

Me:  What is that?

Mari:  International Women’s Day. Tomorrow 8th March.

Me:  That was very helpful.  Thank you.

Okay, maybe that’s not quite what I said.  But you get the idea.

(I feel it’s important to note that while Marisa thinks she only gave me one day notice, she actually gave me a day and a half.  She’s currently living in Australia, which makes her inadvertently more considerate than she originally intended. )

She wrote me back and explained that today, the 8th of March, is the 100 year anniversary of International Women’s Day (IWD) and that I should write a blog post and link it to a website commemorating the occasion.  Unfortunately, I tried to become a “member” of said website and still haven’t received approval.

Story of my life.

But I figured that just because I haven’t been accepted as a member of a prestigious Australian site for young professionals, it doesn’t mean I can’t post something for IWD.

I thought of the many things about which I could write:

  • Hot topic women’s political issues
  • Gender inequalities in the work place
  • Menstrual cramps
  • Women in abusive relationships
  • Tampons
  • Sex slave industry
  • Etc.

Then I realized that these issues have been tackled ad nauseam, by people far more qualified to tackle them than me.  Furthermore, I really don’t want to isolate my male readers.

As Marisa pointed out in her extremely insightful article (if she sends me a non-Facebook link I will post it here), it’s difficult to write or talk about women’s issues without inadvertently (or intentionally, for that matter) blaming them on men.

Hell, even the phrase MENstrual cramps has a certain accusatory tone.

Know what I mean?

And the second I start sounding accusing, the men will start getting defensive, and then no one will really learn anything at all, will they?

And that’s not what IWD is about.  It’s not about “chicks before dicks” – It’s about “chicks WITH dicks!”

Wait.  That’s obviously not right.

But my point is that it shouldn’t be about the typical blame games and anger that have become associated with the word feminism.  It should be about the beauty of women and men, and how a better understanding of and respect for each other could make us all much happier people.

So, I’m going to use this as an opportunity to celebrate just one of the effervescent, brilliant, worldly women in my life (and I’m lucky to have many).

And, I hope that you, all of the women and men who read Domestiphobia, will take some time today to appreciate the women you love or have loved, the women who’ve made you think, the women who’ve brought you joy, and even the women who’ve brought you pain.  Because, in the end, none of us would be the same without them.

Marisa Wikramanayake, thank you sincerely for being a role model for women internationally.  You are a prolific writer, incredibly intelligent, inexplicably fearless, and just as beautiful outwardly as you are inside.

Oh, and I’m sorry I almost burned down the dorm with your metal pot.

*Post title taken from the song, “Sister Suffragette” from the movie, Mary Poppins

Why So Serious?

I am bored.  I am so bored right now, that I’m thinking about climbing over the railing of the loft area here in the coffee shop and balancing on one of the beams that crosses the loungy room below, just to see what happens.

I felt the need to leave the house because Justin is working nights this week, which means I’m supposed to somehow find it within myself to remain eerily quiet while he sleeps throughout the day, which – let’s face it – doesn’t come naturally to someone like me.

Yep, I’m one of those people.

I’m one of those people who doesn’t generally get invited to formal events or fancy work dinner parties because I believe using things like “inside voices” and “refinement” and “muted chuckles” as opposed to boisterous enthusiasm and inappropriate comments and uncontrollable laughter is for pussies fictional characters.

It’s fake.

Unless you’re at a funeral, or something.

But if it were my funeral, I hope you’d laugh.  Most likely because I would’ve died trying to walk the second-story balance beam at my local coffee shop.

Now wouldn’t that be embarrassing?

But you know, the older I get, I’m realizing that the idea of “embarrassment” is really only a state of mind.  And I can say that because I’ve done plenty of embarrassing things.  Like this.  And this.  Oh yeah, and this.

And I’m really not afraid to share those stories, because, you know, they happened. And I can choose to curl myself up into a little ball or worry and regret and wait for people to stop looking at me, or I can just say, So?  What are you gonna do about it? And I hope the answer is laugh, or at least learn, because otherwise I just completely wasted a really good embarrassing story on you and your dry sense of humor.

I will admit that I’m not completely immune, however.  There are some events that have been so ridiculously mortifying that my mind has done everything in its power to repress memories that would serve no purpose but to form an imprengable mental wall of blushing shame.  Events that, when someone unexpectedly brings them up, I can actually feel my throat dry out and heart stop beating – but it only stops for a second, because the relief of dying in the moment of reliving that embarrassment would be only too kind.

My friend and former college roommate Marissa was nice enough to remind me of one of those moments the other day when, as an introduction to her response to this game of internet tag, decided to say this in reference to me:

This is the woman who borrowed my metal pot to make popcorn in and put in the microwave thereby setting the alarm off and directing the wrath of our dormmates and fire brigade at me.

Okay.  Whoah.  First of all, Marissa – low blow.

Second, I was making Ramen noodles – not popcorn.

Third, I’m pretty sure the wrath (which wasn’t really wrath, but mild irritation, disbelief, and intense laughter) was most definitely directed at me, not you.

But no, I’m not really mad.  Everything else Marisa said was completely complimentary.  And you know, sometimes it’s good to be reminded of these things.  Humbling, even.

In my defense, I have been nothing but honest in saying that I didn’t start learning to cook until around 2006 – well after the metal-in-the-microwave incident.  The incident that, much to my horror, forced all of our dorm mates (thank god there were only like 23 rooms in our dorm) to pile out onto the grassy lawn in their pajamas because I had a hankering for some thirty-nine cent beef-flavored goodness.

What can I say?  I thought that the pot (the cooking pot, not the other kind – though wouldn’t it be nice if I could blame that?) was a shortcut.  A means to and end of my hunger.

Turns out it was a means to meeting one of the hotest guys on the campus fire department.

I only wish the circumstances had been a little better.  Like… you know… I hadn’t just almost burned down the dorm.

But, like any other embarrassing moment, there’s a lesson to be learned:

Kids, don’t put metal in the microwave.  And, if you do, make sure you at least look cute when the firemen show up.

Thank you.

So raise your glass if you are wrong
In all the right ways
All my underdogs
We will never be never be
Anything but loud, and nitty gritty
Dirty little freaks!

Do you have an embarrassing story to share?  Let it out!  It can be therapeutic.

Because I’m Just a Waitress

Have you ever noticed that when television shows or Hollywood movies want to make you feel sorry for a female character, they usually cast her as a waitress?

I mean, really, the biggest thing that makes waiting tables a crappy job (besides the minimal pay, odd hours, and cleaning up other people’s messes) is that obnoxious woman who, as I tell her our specials or bring her another wine spritzer, lets herself think that she’s better than me.

It doesn’t happen often, but I can tell which ones they are.  There’s this expression of relief that washes over her face as she makes the conscious decision to not say thank you and instead, turns to her dining partners (who, more often than not, look embarrassed to be seen with her), so she can regale them with stories of her own personal intelligence, wit, and charm.

Because she, after all, did not end up a food server.

(Is that the same blonde actress giving our leading lady the evil eye in both movies?  If there’s anything worse than being the waitress we feel sorry for, it’s being the waitress we don’t even think about.)

But I’m here to tell you, friends, that you should never make that mistake.  Not only do you portray yourself as a repugnant, judgmental ass, but it’s just plain not nice.

Believe it or not, I actually have a bachelor of science in environmental geoscience with a minor in geology.

I even took a class called Geomorphology.

I could go to grad school, if I felt that would make me any happier.

I’ve worked for both the U.S. Air Force and the Army, as well as a private environmental consulting company – a job that, may I remind you, was not easy to get.

Does this make me better than you?  Of course not.

It just makes me better than you think.

In fact, some of the most intelligent people I’ve known have worked in the food service industry at one time or another.  A girl with whom I work right now is an RN.  So, snobby waitress-hater at my table, the good news is she can save you if one day you choke on your snide-laced pride.

Whether they’re doing it for the social aspect, as a transitional phase, or because it was the only thing preventing them from knocking over cubicle walls or beating the crap out of copy machines, it doesn’t really matter.

More often than not, it’s the catch-all career for those who, while pursuing all of the “shoulds” in their lives, realized they lost sight of the “wants” and decided to try again.

Is that really so degrading?

They’re impulsive.

They’re driven.

They’re biding their time until the next big thing.

But, most important, they bring you your food.

And if you’re as smart as you think you are, disparaging woman at my table, then you already know that you should never, ever bite the hand that feeds you.

See you tonight!

xo,

Katie

 

All You Ever Wanted to Know. And Then Some.

I was debating on either sharing a quiche recipe with you today or ranting some more about my job, when the intriguing International Woman of Mystery tagged me in my first ever game of, well… Internet Tag, I guess.

Can you believe I’ve been a blog tag virgin for almost an entire year?

So the deal is I had to answer a bunch of random questions.  Nineteen, to be exact, which makes me think that someone somewhere along the line decided to delete one of the questions.

Naughty, naughty.

Read carefully – you might just learn something about me that you never knew.

Here we go:

1. If you have pets, do you see them as merely animals or are the members of your family?

Family.  Sounds crazy, but my dogs understand my moods and act accordingly.

But kids?  Kids just don’t get me.

2. If you can have a dream come true, what would it be?

Small scale:  My hard drive, which I still haven’t had the heart to throw out, will magically restore itself and give me my life back.

Large scale:  I’m an internationally famous world traveler, eater, and t.v. personality who has all her shit together and makes everyone around her happy all the time.

3. What is the one thing most hated by you?

I don’t really hate much.  I guess it disturbs me when people misunderstand me or overreact or don’t give me the benefit of the doubt or tell me to “chill.”

I am chill.  WTF is your problem?

4. What would you do with a billion dollars?

I’d buy you a monkey.  (Haven’t you always wanted a monkey?)

Oh wait, that’s a million.

You said a billion.  That’s a lot of money.  I’d travel.  Buy art.  Pay off my loans.  Buy each of my parents and in-laws fabulous vacations (but not to the same place at the same time – that would be cruel).  Charities.  Investments.

Pour millions into researching ways money can, in fact, buy happiness.

5. What helps to pull you out of a bad mood?

Happy people.  And puppies.

6. Which is more blessed, loving someone or being loved by someone?

Although I’m sure this question is referring to parents unconditionally loving their babies or a husband still loving his wife after 30 years of marriage even though she doesn’t remember him because she has Alzheimer’s; however, those situations aside, IF you love someone who doesn’t love you back, that could truly feel like a curse.  So I’m gonna have to go with being loved, even though that sounds like the more selfish answer.

I guess that’s because it is.

7. What is your bedtime routine?

Remove contacts, wash face, floss, brush teeth, put on chap stick, get naked, sometimes read or watch t.v. while Justin rubs my back, go to sleep.  There are other factors that vary, obviously, but those items are the most… routiney.

8. If you are currently in a relationship, how did you meet your partner?

At an Irish pub, introduced by his sister.  He wiped off my boob when I spilled some of my drink on my shirt.

Instant connection.  ;)

9. If you could watch a creative person in the act of the creative process, who would it be?

Oh, wow… Way too many choices on this one.  Kurt Vonnegut writing a book.  Kellie MacQuoid creating a painting.  Avett Brothers composing a song.  Anthony Bourdain doing anything he does.  (Well, not quite anything.)

Kellie MacQuoid Print
(Click photo for link to artist's website)

10. What kinds of books do you read?

Anything I find that looks interesting.  Fiction and Nonfiction.  I realize that’s vague, but there ya go.  My favorite book is still Hatchet, by Gary Paulsen.  I don’t know why.

11. How would you see yourself in ten years time?

I don’t.

I don’t know what I’m doing this afternoon, let alone in 10 years.

12. What’s your fear?

See blog title.  And this post.

And the sound biscuit tubes make when they pop open because you never know when they’re gonna pop.

And Sponge Bob Square Pants.  Has there ever been a scarier creature in all of cartoon world?

Salmon Crescent Bundles - Crescent Rolls

13. Would you give up all junk food for the rest of your life for the opportunity to visit outer space?

Gut reaction?  HELL to the YES.  But I think I would need a more concise definition of “junk food” before I could 100% commit.

14. Would you rather be single and rich or married, but poor?

Well that’s kind of an unfair question, considering I am married, which means I have to say “married but poor” so my husband doesn’t think I’m telling him I want a divorce.  BUT, if I were answering this question 5 years ago, I probably would’ve said “single and rich” due to the lack of qualifiers in the original question.

Huh?

Allow me to explain:  Since financial problems are one of the biggest issues with unhappily married couples these days, and the question doesn’t specify that the marriage would be happy, I can only presume that if I answered “married but poor,” not only would I be completely miserable with my spouse who’s probably developed drug or alcohol abuse problems to emotionally deal with the fact that he squandered the last of our savings at the race tracks trying to fund his next big idea, but I also wouldn’t be able to buy things like flat screen t.v.s and big houses and nice cars that would at least allow me to pretend that I’m happy.

Oh, and he’d probably hit me.  Because I tend to mouth off.

So obviously the better choice here would be “single and rich.”  I could live comfortably, pay friends to like me, give money to charities to make me feel good about myself, and have a hot, young cabana boy named Alejandro to take care of my “other” needs… like back rubs and foot massages.

And let’s be honest here:  single does not imply loveless or sexless.  But sometimes, marriage does.

Think about it.

15. What’s the first thing you do when you wake up?

Start wondering whether it’s actually time to get up and debating whether opening my eyes to check the clock is worth the risk of not being able to fall back asleep.

16. If you could change one thing about your spouse/partner what would it be?

I wouldn’t.  I’d change me.

17. If you could pick a new name for yourself, what would it be?

I already did that, when I got married.  It wasn’t a fun process.

Besides, if nothing else, I’m always Katie.

18. Would you forgive and forget no matter how horrible a thing that special someone has done?

No matter how horrible? Seriously?  Of course not.

Like… If Justin tied me to a chair and force-fed me French toast and simultaneously made me watch Sponge Bob while opening refrigerated biscuit tubes, I could never forgive that.

Or forget.

19. If you could only eat one thing for the next 6 months, what would it be?

I seriously think only eating one thing for 6 months would be torturous.  I need variety in my life.

But I’d probably have to say Reese’s Peanut Butter EGGS.  They’re peanut butter cups, but in an egg shape.  And everything’s better in an egg shape.

Which means I’d have to start stocking up like… right now.

Oh, and all the calories wouldn’t matter because my body would probably try to physically expel that crap even faster than I could take it in.

So weight loss would be like a bonus.

I know this is a bum thing to do, but I’m not going to tag anyone specifically.  If you follow my blog, have a blog of your own, and want to answer these questions, I’d love to see your answers!

Some Revelations

This month will mark one year since I started this blog.

When that realization hit me last night, I decided it was time to do something I’d been putting off this entire time.

That’s right.  I needed to define domestiphobia.

What does it mean, anyway?

The truth is, I’ve never really known, because I’ve never taken the time to define it myself.  Until last night.

And honestly, I think its meaning to me has morphed and evolved a great deal over the past year.  The word is fluid and subjective, and when you read it, it might mean something different to you than it does to me.

The following is my current perceived definition and subsequent explanation that I wrote on my newly revamped “About” page:

do.mes.ti.pho.bi.a

noun də-‘mes-ti-‘fō-bē-ə

:  the exaggerated, inexplicable and/or irrational fear of domestic life

Example:  Her fear of leading a stagnant, lethargic life devoid of personal growth and meaningful experiences could be described as a mild case of domestiphobia.

do.mes.tic

adj. də-‘mes-tik

1   :  tame, domesticated <the domestic cat>

2   :  of or relating to the household or the family<domestic chores>

3   :  devoted to home duties or pleasures <leading a quietly domestic life>

 

My name is Katie, and I’m a domestiphobic.

I didn’t know it when I married my wonderful husband in 2006 at the ripe age of 23.  But, for reasons I didn’t yet understand, I slowly began to feel a terrifying sense of suffocation as all of the “expected” pieces of a “normal,” domestic life began falling into place.

Stable office career?  Check.

Fixer-upper in the ‘burbs? Check.

Couple of mutts?  Check.

Kids?  Now wait just one damn minute.

These were the things I was supposed to be doing, but did I really want them at all?  My actions were leading my life into a revolving door of repeated days, weeks, years.  The same morning traffic, the same weekly meals, the same company parties, the same family gatherings.  Maybe it’s because traditions are one of the most painful castrations in a divorce-torn family like mine, but my newfound sense of repetition provided me no comfort.

In fact, it was quite the opposite.

In what can now only be described as a quarter-life crisis, I quit my job in 2010 to travel to Costa Rica with a dear friend (and temporary blogging cohort) for a couple of months.  The experience only further spurred an itch I’ve been longing to scratch for a long, long time.

Now I realize some things.  I have some wants that lethargy simply won’t feed:  I want to be a better person.  I want to be a better partner.  I want to change, and grow, and experience new people and new cultures and new cuisine.  I want to learn how to play the guitar and become fluent in at least one other language.  I want to write and make people think.  I want to inspire.  I don’t ever want to leave without leaving something good behind.

I’m not afraid to say what I want.  I’m not afraid to be selfish or make mistakes.

Because, it turns out, I can’t be who anyone else needs me to be until I embrace who I need me to be.

Today, I still live in the ‘burbs with my (astoundingly supportive) husband, the mutts, and zero babies.  But now I’m trying to find that thing that feeds my wanderlust – both physical and emotional.

This blog is a journal of my domestic and non-domestic experiences – where I struggle to tie together the things I’m fortunate enough to have with the things I’m crazy enough to want – where you will find me learning to cook and working on home renovations when I’m not playing with ‘gators in the Everglades or jumping out of planes in Hawaii.

Welcome to my world.

 

 

Up with Caffeine and Down with a Shot

I’m going to be honest.  I’ve been having a hard time lately.  You know, in case you didn’t figure that out here, here and especially here.

Sometimes I’ll be working at the bar and some customer will feel inclined to comment on my boobs or my tantrum-loving boss will throw a public conniption my way because, you know, it’s okay to do these things in a bar.  And then I’ll think to myself, for the umpteenth time, why the hell did I quit my awesome-paying, cozy little cubicle job for this?

You know, the boob thing doesn’t even bother me so much.  I expect that kind of behavior from drunk people and, if I’m going to be honest, I have nice boobs.  And taking it in stride leads to much better tips.  But the conniption thing?  Why someone this prone to high blood pressure and stress-induced hissy fits and all-around bouts of purely childish behavior would ever, ever own a bar is beyond my comprehension.

Photo source

When my boss is in the middle of a tantrum, I stand there and stare with disbelief for a few minutes because I honestly thought, at age 28, that my days of standing in front of a “grown-up” and enduring a verbally abusive rage of hysterics were over way back in my teenage years when I actually deserved it.

Then, when he finally stops to take a breath, I calmly ask, Are you finished?

Which is a little amusing to me because that ticks him off even more, and he gets revved up again with consternation and petulance, and his energy builds like the Little Engine that Could, painfully trucking his way up the hill, face turning red from the exertion of it all, only to putter to a stop at the top in an extremely disappointing and anticlimactic excretion of watered-down anger and spent steam.

It’s like emotional erectile dysfunction, and it’s exhausting just watching him.

Photo source

Now here’s something you should know about me.  I can get mad in certain trigger situations very, very easily.  The trade-off is that my anger is ridiculously short-lived.  So if you ever tick me off, don’t worry about it because we’ll likely be bonding over a couple of beers like the BFFs we were always meant to be in a matter of hours.

Which is how I’ve managed to continue working at this bar.  I get mad at my boss for his asinine behavior, but then I get over it.  That’s the nature of the food/beverage service industry, after all.

But anyway.  My hard time.

When I ask myself why I gave up my career to revert back to my college and pre-college days of professional food distribution, I have to force myself remember how I felt when I wrote this post, and specifically, this paragraph:

First, let me just say that the hardest thing about going to work when you know you want to quit, is going to work when you already have quit.  The gray cubicle walls seem a little… grayer… and the harsh neon lighting seems a little… neonier.  It’s like the last couple weeks of a prison sentence.  Except with coffee breaks and I don’t have to worry about my co-workers shanking me on my way to the bathroom.  Usually.

That place is not where I’m supposed to be.  This much I know.

But neither is the bar.  Not by a long shot.

So.  Where does that leave me?

I remember my 2-month adventure in Costa Rica and how it’s when I’m traveling that I feel the most alive.  I remember the sinking feeling I had when a dear friend invited me to India with her next month and I felt like I had to turn her down because travel costs money, and I don’t feel justified in spending money I’m not actually earning.  I want to earn money from traveling and writing, but can’t travel without money and can’t write without travel.

Huh?

Exactly.

That’s not 100% true.  I can write without travel, although the ability to say “yes” to these lofty excursions when the opportunities arise is my ultimate goal.  (And another opportunity has arisen.  It may not be as exciting as a trip to India, but it does involve a road trip and one of my favorite bands ever, but more on that as plans – or my typical lack-thereof – evolve.)

In the meantime, I’m going to jump into this writing thing with renewed zest.  I know it seems like I keep saying that on this blog, but that’s because I get inspired to write a post every time I’m on the up-slope of this emotional roller coaster.

I don’t write as much when I’m down, because… well… it’s dark down there and it’s hard to see the pages.

But then, then I get an encouraging comment on this blog or an email from a reader, and it’s like I can breathe again.  It makes me feel like I’m on the right track.  So thank you for that.

Sincerely.

You’re the best uppers ever because you’re free and just as addictive.

I’ll leave you with a question and some lines from Talk on Indolence by the Avett Brothers (hint, hint) because, as usual, they can express how I’m feeling much better than I ever could.

Question:  Have you ever had an extremely shitty boss, and if so, how did you deal?  I could really use some advice on this one.

Avetts:

Well I’ve been lockin’ myself up in my house for sometime now
Readin’ and writin’ and readin’ and thinkin’
And searching for reasons and missing the seasons.
The Autumn, the Spring, the Summer, the snow.
The record will stop the record will go.
Latches latched the windows down,
The dog coming in the dog going out.
Up with caffeine and down with a shot.
Constantly worried about what I’ve got.
Distracting my work but I can’t make a stop
And my confidence on and my confidence off.
And I sink to the bottom and rise to the top
And I think to myself that I do this a lot.
World outside just goes it goes it goes it goes it goes it goes…
And I witness it all from the blinds of my window.

Productivity is a State of Mind

Okay, so this is what’s happening:

First, I just did something almost unheard of in the universe that is my bodily system.  I didn’t let any caffeine enter into it until noon.  The delay wasn’t a result of some inspired attempt to better myself by cutting back on my caffeine intake.  Oh, no.  I did not intend to deprive myself the entire morning.

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But after I wrote my notice of fame and let Jillian torture my aching (but growing) muscles, I still had to shower and make myself presentable (one of the negative, time-sucking ramifications of deciding to venture out into the world instead of staying at home with a couple of cuddly mutts – mutts who, after their mischievous and completely accidental consumption of chicken grease from the trap in the grill last night, decided to vomit all over the floor before I left), so I didn’t actually leave my dwelling until half past eleven.

Second, I finally made my way to the trendy coffee place (no Starbucks or chain bookstore for me today, thankyouverymuch – I like to support the local businesses) and my hands are shaking, either because I waited so long to have coffee or the shock of the super syrupy sweet stuff – as opposed to the plain ol’ black stuff I brew at home – was just too much for my unstable system and now I’m having difficulty just writing this post.

I know that can’t be good, but let’s just worry about one thing at a time.

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The difficulty I’m having might also be due to the fact that I’m not used to writing with all this… stimulation around.  There are colors and lights and music and other people I keep finding that my fingers have stopped typing in order for my ears to better pick up on their conversations or for my mind to wonder what other people are writing.

I’ve never been good at multi-tasking.

Like, is the girl next to me writing a future best-selling novel?  An obscure but insightful blog post?  An article for a fashion magazine about the merits of owning a pair of red pumps?  A thought-provoking Facebook status?

Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s good.

So maybe this isn’t the best environment for me to work.  It’s the music that makes it the most difficult.  I don’t listen to music while I write at home, because, well… all I end up doing is listening to the music.

Speaking of music, you’ll never guess who just walked in.  (Seriously, you’ll never guess because I’ve never told you about him.)  His name is Miraj, and I met him at the wine bar, where he brilliantly performs various acoustics for one of the regular singers.  He looked shocked to see me outside of the wine bar (picture your reaction the first time you saw a teacher at the grocery store or anywhere outside the classroom – it’s freaky), and apparently this coffee bar is his second home.  He hosts various open mic nights here on a regular basis, and after we spent the last half hour chatting, I’m excited because I’ve officially found my in for half-price fancy coffee in Fayetteville.

And It only took me 4 years.

So.  Even though I have now been here for over an hour and what you see in this post is all I have managed to write in said hour, I consider this time well spent.

I actually intended to post a recipe this afternoon – a recipe I’m really excited to share – but I’m afraid it will now have to wait until tomorrow because I’ve rambled for 615 words about coffee and why are you still even reading this?

Decide What to Be and Go Be It

Oh, my.  I don’t know what to say.  It looks as though the world is weary of romance – or at least in need of romantic pressure relief – because a tiny, unromantic piece of my little world is being shared today, on Valentine’s Day, on one of my favorite blogs:

Musings on Life and Love

It’s a fine-tuned version of my Valentine’s Strip Tease post from last Friday.  So, if you want to see what my writing looks like when it’s all professional and polished and edited multiple times and not just pieced together over a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats and coffee-induced caffeine buzz, head on over to Musings on Life and Love and check it out!

Speaking of coffee, I think I’m going to attempt writing this afternoon’s post at a coffee bar after my workout this morning.  I had a very good night at the wine bar on Saturday, and that, combined with my newfound fame over on Musings and the $7.88 my writing earned last year, I think I deserve to sit in a trendy coffee bar typing away on my HP Mini while a goth barista brings me steaming venti mugs of non-fat, caramel-choco-mocha lattes because if I’m going to be a writer, I at least have to try to look the part.

Right?

Oh, and as a side-note, THE AVETT BROTHERS performed at the Grammys last night!

I love them so much that I died.

Then I came back to life so I wouldn’t miss the song.

And then I died again.

P.S.  This post is for Stacy, because she brought the Avetts and good coffee into my life.  She’s not goth, but she’s weird in the most perfect way and sometimes, when I start to confuse myself in line at a coffee place, I just take a deep breath, think WWSD, and sing.

P.P.S. If you haven’t read Stacy’s guest post on this blog, you probably should.