Well, here we are, patient readers of Forever Got Shorter; it's the beginning of the end of a hot and humid New England summer, and a perfect time for reflection.
This summer I worked two jobs, went to the beach a total of zero times, and lost two pairs of sunglasses. I went on one (minor) road trip, saw The Flaming Lips twice, and lost my cell phone in a Porta Potty. I sunk almost 1,000 dollars into my 1997 Subaru, bought a new sundress, and have likely ingested an overall total of three bottles of gin. Maybe more.
So, to summerize (ha) in terms of Have's and Have Not's, you could say I'm up by one sundress but down by two pairs of sunglasses, at least one thousand dollars and a cell phone. That doesn't sound so hot. However, on the up side of things, the memories of the in-between parts are sweet like a Hendrick's and tonic with a slice of cucumber floating in it, and that's just delicious.
I worked hard and played harder this summer. I made new friends and went to new places and only got one sunburn. (Hear that, Dr. Dermatologist? Eh? Aren't you proud of my and my pale self?) I wore a flower in my hair every day and settled on a new tattoo design. (Okay, Dr. Dermatologist, I know you're not a fan of my tattoos, and I did promise I wasn't going to get anymore... why don't you go read the part about only one sunburn again. Get happy. Baby steps.)
This moment of reflection is all based upon the fact that it's nearly August. August. Where does the time go? I'm nearly positive that it was just yesterday that I was miserably sweating to death while waitressing during Summerfest New Bedford 2010 which, once again, was ruining my Fourth of July.
Now, no offense intended to the actual Summerfest event, but you must understand that if every year for six years you were asked to work twelve hours a day for three consecutive days, spending the entire time on your feet and serving non-stop the masses of sock-and-sandal-wearing, fannie-pack-toting, tie-dye-covered folk music freaks - er, fans - that flood the streets of Downtown New Bedford every year during the Fourth of July weekend, you'd be a bit bitter, too. Here's a test: Raise your hand if you like fireworks. Raise your hand if you like to go see them on the Fourth of July. Raise your hand if you haven't seen Fourth of July fireworks in six years. Oh, gee, and I'm the only one raising my hand. Hm. Okay. I'm going to the bad place. Deep breaths... Get your zen on, Katie... Okay. Better.
Commence rant.
So, yes, here we are... August. In one month, Reality will shake me awake from this deep, humid slumber and say "Finish your thesis, graduate from school, and get acclimated to the Real World, you silly, silly girl. Oh yeah, and take that flower out of your hair. Nobody will hire you or take you seriously with that thing in there."
The goal is to enjoy August with the intensity of a Death Row Prisoner eating a last meal. Savor some bites and shove others in with a quickness. Memorize the motion of enjoyment. Mix it up, get messy, and don't forget to take some intermittent slow, deep breaths so I don't choke.
It's all going to be gone quickly... the summer, the notion that I'm still young and can enjoy the summer with the voracity with which I intend to... it's all going to fade away and give way to bright autumnal colors, a thesis, a website, and an academic agenda.
Here we go, kids. Buckle up.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Reasons
I'm not so good at "reasons." You know, reasons for doing things or not doing things, having things or not, caring about things or not. I'm a spur-of-the-moment kind of reasoner. Why do I have a blog? Because I one day decided I wanted one. Why am I writing this blog entry? Because I felt moved to do so. Why am I doing what I'm doing in life? Because this is where I have been led. I don't put a lot of stock in reason... because, as far as I'm concerned, you don't make the reason - the reason makes you.
I've never been a staunch believer in a higher power - of something dictating what and when and how things will happen. However, I do believe that everything we do is somehow "supposed" to be done, because it brings us somewhere else, somewhere we wouldn't be if we had made any other choice.
Do you recall the "Choose Your Own Adventure" books? If not, or if you do but not to a sufficient extent, check this out for an introduction/refresher. Anyway... the "Choose Your Own Adventure" life model is how I generally feel about making life decisions. You make one, or another, and one of two - or three or four - reactions is possible. This particular reaction inspires another spontaneous action on your behalf, and so on and so forth. The point being - your actions elicit reactions based solely upon the choices you make. It's not that things are fated, so to speak, it's that your decisions build consequences; sometimes the consequences amaze you, and thus, you have been "fated," and other times the consequences are crippling, and though you may curse the decision initially, you eventually find that the consequence was actually a door - or, a page turn if you want to follow the "Choose Your Own Adventure" metaphor - to the "right" way, or the "right" event, or the "right" person. It's all... purposely consequential.
This concept is not totally cryptic, and I apologize if it's coming across as so. Mostly, what I'm trying to say is, you don't know where life will lead, but if you make decisions based solely - or, at the very least, mostly - based on your instinct as to what it is that you want, what you truly, truly believe is right, then for the most part things will work out in your favor.
I believe in karma, I believe in the "everything happens for a reason," I just don't believe in reason. If I believed in reason, then that would imply that the reason's outcome would totally be in my control, and it's not. It's not who, or what, or where - it's how. How you handle a situation, how you build a relationship, and how you make yourself the person that you want to be. Reason has nothing to do with that - reason is the secret that you don't know until it's too late. And, I do mean "late" in the good way. Reason catches up with you and you say "Holy shit, it was supposed to happen this way."
We make instinctual choices, and those choices lead to results, resolutions, and retaliations. All of which are the spawn of more instinctual choices. Reason builds a following along the way. Reason is based on the past, on the experience of having reasoned before... and you don't need "a reason," you just need an answer. The question will follow suit, the rest of your life will unfold, and everything - yeah, everything - will eventually become totally and completely clear. You'll know the reason. The reason is the end result. The reason isn't obvious until the credits roll and the popcorn is empty and the house lights come up.
At least, that's the kind of reason I deal with. Inconspicuous, totally secretive, unobtrusive reasons for everything. But, everything does have a reason. So, at least there's that.
Now, as far as the reason for this post? Two cocktails and some quality time with my best friend. That's a good enough reason for me. Just enough to make me contemplate how we're still friends after meeting in seventh grade, how we work together, and how we have the same amazing group of friends we've always had.
Now, I'll fall asleep and wake up in the morning to do laundry and dishes and I'll probably reread this and go, "Ooooh, Katie, you were feeling theoretical last night," and that'll be okay. 'Cause someday, I'll need this reason for reason, and someday it'll all make sense.
Maybe even tomorrow.
I've never been a staunch believer in a higher power - of something dictating what and when and how things will happen. However, I do believe that everything we do is somehow "supposed" to be done, because it brings us somewhere else, somewhere we wouldn't be if we had made any other choice.
Do you recall the "Choose Your Own Adventure" books? If not, or if you do but not to a sufficient extent, check this out for an introduction/refresher. Anyway... the "Choose Your Own Adventure" life model is how I generally feel about making life decisions. You make one, or another, and one of two - or three or four - reactions is possible. This particular reaction inspires another spontaneous action on your behalf, and so on and so forth. The point being - your actions elicit reactions based solely upon the choices you make. It's not that things are fated, so to speak, it's that your decisions build consequences; sometimes the consequences amaze you, and thus, you have been "fated," and other times the consequences are crippling, and though you may curse the decision initially, you eventually find that the consequence was actually a door - or, a page turn if you want to follow the "Choose Your Own Adventure" metaphor - to the "right" way, or the "right" event, or the "right" person. It's all... purposely consequential.
This concept is not totally cryptic, and I apologize if it's coming across as so. Mostly, what I'm trying to say is, you don't know where life will lead, but if you make decisions based solely - or, at the very least, mostly - based on your instinct as to what it is that you want, what you truly, truly believe is right, then for the most part things will work out in your favor.
I believe in karma, I believe in the "everything happens for a reason," I just don't believe in reason. If I believed in reason, then that would imply that the reason's outcome would totally be in my control, and it's not. It's not who, or what, or where - it's how. How you handle a situation, how you build a relationship, and how you make yourself the person that you want to be. Reason has nothing to do with that - reason is the secret that you don't know until it's too late. And, I do mean "late" in the good way. Reason catches up with you and you say "Holy shit, it was supposed to happen this way."
We make instinctual choices, and those choices lead to results, resolutions, and retaliations. All of which are the spawn of more instinctual choices. Reason builds a following along the way. Reason is based on the past, on the experience of having reasoned before... and you don't need "a reason," you just need an answer. The question will follow suit, the rest of your life will unfold, and everything - yeah, everything - will eventually become totally and completely clear. You'll know the reason. The reason is the end result. The reason isn't obvious until the credits roll and the popcorn is empty and the house lights come up.
At least, that's the kind of reason I deal with. Inconspicuous, totally secretive, unobtrusive reasons for everything. But, everything does have a reason. So, at least there's that.
Now, as far as the reason for this post? Two cocktails and some quality time with my best friend. That's a good enough reason for me. Just enough to make me contemplate how we're still friends after meeting in seventh grade, how we work together, and how we have the same amazing group of friends we've always had.
Now, I'll fall asleep and wake up in the morning to do laundry and dishes and I'll probably reread this and go, "Ooooh, Katie, you were feeling theoretical last night," and that'll be okay. 'Cause someday, I'll need this reason for reason, and someday it'll all make sense.
Maybe even tomorrow.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Displaced Anger
Working with the public is interesting.
It doesn't matter what your patron/customer/guest does or says, you have to remain calm, you have to pretend it's not bothering you, and you have to smile. Or, at the very least, you have to not yell. Or scream. Or appear angry in any way.
Sometimes... sometimes, this is hard.
So, in those cases, when being nice is just too much trouble because they (patron/customer/guest) are really trying every last frayed nerve you've got, you displace your anger.
It's not an unusual concept - it's the natural order of things. Okay, for example, my dog Kota once heard a gaggle of geese flying over/past the house. He heard honking and commotion and he was pissed. Who knows why. Now, Kota doesn't get pissed very often (except once, at Beck, at Eric's house), and so the time with the geese is especially memorable - he was panting, barking and running around like a lunatic. The point is: He couldn't actually be angry at the geese. They existed unseen, they were just an annoying sound that he couldn't identify or assault into submission, and therefore, Kota displaced his anger and attacked his toy bear. I mean... he really shook the thing, too. Like, ran over, took the bear ("Rupert"), and shook it back and forth repeatedly. Take that, geese!
So, there you go. Displaced anger and inaccurate anger management are just traits that can be associated with one's existence if you are any kind of oxygen-dependant thing wandering the planet. And, tonight was no exception.
I displaced my anger. I had shitty patrons/customers/guests that pissed me off and I displaced my anger. I yelled at my coworkers, I swore at my boss... I acted like I act when I'm being a nasty brat. But, I had to. If it didn't make it's way out to the people who I can hug at the end of the night and apologize to, then it would make it's way out to the people who pay my rent.
This is the curse of the restaurant industry.
I think what makes it harder at the restaurant I work in, is knowing people through the whole "Six Degrees of New Bedford" thing and then knowing - inadvertently - the people who piss "you" off. Maybe you've seen them on Facebook, commenting and "liking" on other people's walls. Maybe you've waited on them 100 times before. Maybe you know where they work, what they do, and who they are more than you'd like to admit. Maybe you've even worked with them before and therefore are increasingly irritated when it appears they have zero understanding as to how things in the "normal" world of waitressing work.
Maybe I'm just pissed that sometimes nobody seems to understand how hard servers work for what little money they make.
Maybe I'm just bitter.
I'm ending this blog post before it gets nasty. It's heading in that direction, I think.
Just a final note:
I do like my job. Sometimes I just wish people knew what it was like to do my job. Tonight, according to my computer report, I served 45 people. Forty-five people got a happy, smiling, efficient as all holy hell server that they tipped out of societal obligation without realizing that I make three dollars an hour, love my job, and rely on these social constructs that encourage people to tip for service.
Do me a favor. Next time you go out to eat, or buy a drink at a bar, or pick up take-out, tip your server or bartender or take-out person as if it were you, and as if it were the thirtieth and rent's due on the first, and as if you really appreciate the fact that they are smiling and helpful and courteous no matter what. No matter what.
Thanks.
Oh, and if they are not courteous and helpful, then fuck it.
That is all.
It doesn't matter what your patron/customer/guest does or says, you have to remain calm, you have to pretend it's not bothering you, and you have to smile. Or, at the very least, you have to not yell. Or scream. Or appear angry in any way.
Sometimes... sometimes, this is hard.
So, in those cases, when being nice is just too much trouble because they (patron/customer/guest) are really trying every last frayed nerve you've got, you displace your anger.
It's not an unusual concept - it's the natural order of things. Okay, for example, my dog Kota once heard a gaggle of geese flying over/past the house. He heard honking and commotion and he was pissed. Who knows why. Now, Kota doesn't get pissed very often (except once, at Beck, at Eric's house), and so the time with the geese is especially memorable - he was panting, barking and running around like a lunatic. The point is: He couldn't actually be angry at the geese. They existed unseen, they were just an annoying sound that he couldn't identify or assault into submission, and therefore, Kota displaced his anger and attacked his toy bear. I mean... he really shook the thing, too. Like, ran over, took the bear ("Rupert"), and shook it back and forth repeatedly. Take that, geese!
So, there you go. Displaced anger and inaccurate anger management are just traits that can be associated with one's existence if you are any kind of oxygen-dependant thing wandering the planet. And, tonight was no exception.
I displaced my anger. I had shitty patrons/customers/guests that pissed me off and I displaced my anger. I yelled at my coworkers, I swore at my boss... I acted like I act when I'm being a nasty brat. But, I had to. If it didn't make it's way out to the people who I can hug at the end of the night and apologize to, then it would make it's way out to the people who pay my rent.
This is the curse of the restaurant industry.
I think what makes it harder at the restaurant I work in, is knowing people through the whole "Six Degrees of New Bedford" thing and then knowing - inadvertently - the people who piss "you" off. Maybe you've seen them on Facebook, commenting and "liking" on other people's walls. Maybe you've waited on them 100 times before. Maybe you know where they work, what they do, and who they are more than you'd like to admit. Maybe you've even worked with them before and therefore are increasingly irritated when it appears they have zero understanding as to how things in the "normal" world of waitressing work.
Maybe I'm just pissed that sometimes nobody seems to understand how hard servers work for what little money they make.
Maybe I'm just bitter.
I'm ending this blog post before it gets nasty. It's heading in that direction, I think.
Just a final note:
I do like my job. Sometimes I just wish people knew what it was like to do my job. Tonight, according to my computer report, I served 45 people. Forty-five people got a happy, smiling, efficient as all holy hell server that they tipped out of societal obligation without realizing that I make three dollars an hour, love my job, and rely on these social constructs that encourage people to tip for service.
Do me a favor. Next time you go out to eat, or buy a drink at a bar, or pick up take-out, tip your server or bartender or take-out person as if it were you, and as if it were the thirtieth and rent's due on the first, and as if you really appreciate the fact that they are smiling and helpful and courteous no matter what. No matter what.
Thanks.
Oh, and if they are not courteous and helpful, then fuck it.
That is all.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Nine Innings
I have a thing for the number nine.
My bestie's getting married on 9/9 and I'm just superstitious enough to think that's for the best. My phone number is compiled of numerically consecutive multiples of nine. Often the ninth of any month is the best day.
I could go on and really take you through the crazy, but I'll refrain.
For the purpose of this post, you need only remember the awesomeness of nine innings of baseball.
Have you ever smiled so much, and for so long, that your face literally starts to ache?
If so, then you are one of the lucky ones. You are one of those people who can stand to exceed the physical limitations of how happy one can possibly bee. (That spelling is not a typo. That spelling is an homage to Eric Marshall.)
Last night, my smile kicked my ass. It was one of those face-hurting nights.
You know, I've been having more and more of those nights lately, and that's pretty awesome. My cheeks are gettin' a sick workout.
(Flash to scene: I'm standing in front of one of those huge gym mirrors dressed in full sweatsuit attire and wearing a sweatband, smiling and unmoving. A really muscular bro walks by and pauses for a moment, studies my determinate stance, then says: "Nice cheeks, dude." He walks away, shaking his head, he is both in awe of my insanely toned cheek muscles and reminding himself to work on his cheek muscles during his cardio tomorrow. This illustrative digression has been brought to you by Katie's Wicked Good Mood.)
So, last night. Smiling. Right...
Last night Nick & I went to the Red Sox game, pretty much on a whim.
On Monday, while driving back from Vermont with my parents, we had a textversation:
Nick: "Do you have plans Wednesday night?"
Katie: "Nope. You?"
N: "I just got tickets to the Red Sox game."
Kt: "And you want to take me?"
N: "I do!"
Immediately following that message I may have squealed and clapped, which alerted my mother - who was driving - that something mayjah was goin' down.
Mom: "What's going on?"
Kt: "Nick got tickets to the Sox game Wednesday!"
M: "Oh! Nice! Is he taking you?"
Now, I'm a nice person, and I do enjoy watching others succeed and have nice things... but I wouldn't exactly be squealing in excitement for Nick's good fortune if he got the Sox tickets and was just letting me know.
Just sayin'.
Anyway, so, we arrive at a rainy Fenway park to attend what I've then realized is my first night game ever. Also, it was the first game at which I did not purchase a single twenty billion dollar Solo cup of beer. Cheers.
As is typical, as soon as I stepped ontoYawkey Way, I felt like a kid and I started smiling like an idiot. Then, I feel the Fenway vibe turning it into one of those goofy grins that I can't really control. Seeing NESN & Tom Caron makes me smile every time. Then, Eck stories made me smile. Oh, and Bill Lee made me smile. And, of course Nick made me smile. Then a Papi HR made me smile...
I was overwhelmed... in the good way.
So, okay, the abbreviated version of our journey at Fenway went something like this:
Stage One: Fenway Franks.
Stage Two: Seats in the bleachers, row 37.
Stage Three: The incarnation of Chris in row 36.
Stage Four: Drying off.
Stage Five: Walking around.
Stage Six: Being ushered into the second row inches from the Twins' dugout to watch the rain disappear and the Sox win.
Go ahead, you can reread the sixth stage.
Got it? Yeah...
Now, I've left out some stuff, because I want to let Nick tell you how that all went down. It's only right... most of the Fenway freakiness was happening to him. I was just a willing participant along for a lucky, lucky ride to a field box at Fenway Park and half piece of baseball card bubble gum.
Oh, yeah, and an awesome cheek workout.
My bestie's getting married on 9/9 and I'm just superstitious enough to think that's for the best. My phone number is compiled of numerically consecutive multiples of nine. Often the ninth of any month is the best day.
I could go on and really take you through the crazy, but I'll refrain.
For the purpose of this post, you need only remember the awesomeness of nine innings of baseball.
..........
Have you ever smiled so much, and for so long, that your face literally starts to ache?
If so, then you are one of the lucky ones. You are one of those people who can stand to exceed the physical limitations of how happy one can possibly bee. (That spelling is not a typo. That spelling is an homage to Eric Marshall.)
Last night, my smile kicked my ass. It was one of those face-hurting nights.
You know, I've been having more and more of those nights lately, and that's pretty awesome. My cheeks are gettin' a sick workout.
(Flash to scene: I'm standing in front of one of those huge gym mirrors dressed in full sweatsuit attire and wearing a sweatband, smiling and unmoving. A really muscular bro walks by and pauses for a moment, studies my determinate stance, then says: "Nice cheeks, dude." He walks away, shaking his head, he is both in awe of my insanely toned cheek muscles and reminding himself to work on his cheek muscles during his cardio tomorrow. This illustrative digression has been brought to you by Katie's Wicked Good Mood.)
So, last night. Smiling. Right...
Last night Nick & I went to the Red Sox game, pretty much on a whim.
On Monday, while driving back from Vermont with my parents, we had a textversation:
Nick: "Do you have plans Wednesday night?"
Katie: "Nope. You?"
N: "I just got tickets to the Red Sox game."
Kt: "And you want to take me?"
N: "I do!"
Immediately following that message I may have squealed and clapped, which alerted my mother - who was driving - that something mayjah was goin' down.
Mom: "What's going on?"
Kt: "Nick got tickets to the Sox game Wednesday!"
M: "Oh! Nice! Is he taking you?"
Now, I'm a nice person, and I do enjoy watching others succeed and have nice things... but I wouldn't exactly be squealing in excitement for Nick's good fortune if he got the Sox tickets and was just letting me know.
Just sayin'.
Anyway, so, we arrive at a rainy Fenway park to attend what I've then realized is my first night game ever. Also, it was the first game at which I did not purchase a single twenty billion dollar Solo cup of beer. Cheers.
As is typical, as soon as I stepped ontoYawkey Way, I felt like a kid and I started smiling like an idiot. Then, I feel the Fenway vibe turning it into one of those goofy grins that I can't really control. Seeing NESN & Tom Caron makes me smile every time. Then, Eck stories made me smile. Oh, and Bill Lee made me smile. And, of course Nick made me smile. Then a Papi HR made me smile...
I was overwhelmed... in the good way.
So, okay, the abbreviated version of our journey at Fenway went something like this:
Stage One: Fenway Franks.
Stage Two: Seats in the bleachers, row 37.
Stage Three: The incarnation of Chris in row 36.
Stage Four: Drying off.
Stage Five: Walking around.
Stage Six: Being ushered into the second row inches from the Twins' dugout to watch the rain disappear and the Sox win.
Go ahead, you can reread the sixth stage.
Got it? Yeah...
Now, I've left out some stuff, because I want to let Nick tell you how that all went down. It's only right... most of the Fenway freakiness was happening to him. I was just a willing participant along for a lucky, lucky ride to a field box at Fenway Park and half piece of baseball card bubble gum.
Oh, yeah, and an awesome cheek workout.
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