lowered expectations

So a couple of weeks ago, I began a job at a fabulous (yes I may be biased, but it's still fabulous) new gourmet market/cafe/sushi bar/sandwich bar/coffee and tea bar hybrid. Yes it sounds like a cluster f**ck, but it's really quite lovely. I mainly work behind the coffee bar, working the register, making coffee, preparing espresso and tea. And honestly, I love the job. I've worked as a barista before, and without question that was my favorite job (as in paying job, not internship) ever. It wasn't necessarily the pay or the location, but the actual work, the simple act of making coffee drinks, as strange as that might sound. And it's the same this time. I've never opened a place before and the hours are crazy and there are unexpected snafus and crisis (crises? crisises?), but I get the same basic satisfaction out of work. And the funny part is that this place is super close to campus, as in practically on top of it. Honestly that's a big reason I wanted the job. I love the CofC campus. I think it's the most beautiful campus in the United States. And no I do not need to visit every campus in the US to know that (I've maybe visited six...four?), I just know it in my Charleston loving heart. I walk through the Cistern, or down Glebe, and I feel safe. I may be a graduate but it's home. I really hope it will always feel like that, that the Stern Center will always give me a weird sense of peace in the midst of its fast food kiosks and student rooms. But anyways, as a result of my work place being on campus, we get a lot of professors in there. And today I had not one, not two, but count 'em, THREE of my former English professors come in. Each and every time, they were very nice and friendly, but I couldn't help wonder, what are they really thinking? Here I am, a very fresh graduate of the English department, countless hours of Shakespeare and Milton and Fielding stuffed into my brain, pages and pages of fiction written and discussed, and what am I doing with all of this literary training? Absolutely fricking nothing. Customers do not ask about Blake or Eliot when they order a latte. I don't dole out sonnets with my jasmine teas. My life right now couldn't be farther from academia or the literary establishment. And it may be self-centered, but I just feel like my professors must at least be a little confused/disappointed/angry. Do they wonder if I lost it, simply gave up all things English in an overstressed, overstimulated post-graduate frenzy? Or do they wonder if that's really the only thing a person can do with an English major these days-go work in a coffee store, i.e. English majors are completely worthless? The answer of course is none of the above. I'm not devoting my life to the coffee business. But honestly it's tempting. I loved college. I love reading and learning in a really dorky way. But to make something with your own hands is rewarding in a completely different way than any book or paper can be. It's not better, it's just different. And it's been exactly what I've needed lately, kind of like an R and R for the mind. I'm tired of thinking, of researching and stressing. There's a peace and a simplicity in my work. It's hard to explain, but when I make a perfect cappuccino, that's a pretty damn great feeling. To steam the milk perfectly, create the right ration of foam and milk, gives me this weird natural high that no hot beverage should give someone. I love when my teas come out right, when they're seeped just long enough. I love when a customer tells me they love the coffee I've ground and brewed. I love adjusting the espresso grinder in tiny increments until the espresso runs just right (not too fast, not too slow, around 23-25 seconds). I trained on that machine for like 20 hours, and I can tell you that making a good shot of espresso is anything but easy.I love that my hands have already taken on wear - a tiny callus on my wrist from when I test the heat of the milk pitcher, cuts on my fingers from various barista related tasks, burns here and there. There's a different kind of tired after you've been on your feet all day, working with your hands - a tired that's heavy but free of any kind of mental or emotional fatigue. I'm not an artist. I don't do crafts, but weirdly enough I've found my own sort of craft with my little espresso bar job. It's not high fallutin' or intellectual and that's why I love it. My professors may be disappointed, but after sixteen years of school, there's nothing I need more right now than to work with my hands on a daily basis, to stop thinking and to just to create something tangible and real (with a dollop of froth on top of course).

explaining my leave of absence

So I haven't written anything in more than a month, and I've told myself a lot of reasons why - first it was finals insanity (a distant blur in my memory now - all i recall is a haze of caffeine, sleep deprivation, and a constant desire to throw things at noisy people in the library), then it was graduation and all of the graduation chores and events that came along with it, and then it was a new job (full time for the very first time in my life, I really am a kind of adult now, emphasis on kind 0f). But all of those are basically cop outs. I haven't written anything, because to write would be to process, and to process the events of the last month and the ones coming up in the not too distant future is something I haven't even wanted to attempt. And I'm not sure even if I had attempted it would have helped. I'm still not sure. And before I started writing this, every part of me wanted to curl up in bed instead with my Felicity DVDs. But I needed to at least write something, to start this big, scary (TERRIFYING is more how it feels in my head) process of saying goodbye to college. I'm going to keep things short for right now, take baby steps, but all I can really say with any definitiveness at this point is that we've been lied to. There's this collective opinion in society that there are normal rites of passage in life, and that these things may be a little poignant, a tad sad, but that they're routine and necessary and easy. The way I figure it is that at some point, adults must make a decision to lie to future generations about growing up, or at least decide to gloss things over, tell the sugar coated version. And honestly who can blame them? Because would anyone grow up if they knew how much it hurt, how disorienting and jarring it would be? We'd all just stay emotionally put at nine years old, a bunch of overgrown children sitting around in sand-boxes, blissfully unaware of things like graduations or careers or endings. But we were lied to; we naively filled out the right forms and took the right classes and made little homes in the colleges of our choice. And then poof its over, the lights go down, the props are removed and we're shoved rudely out into the harsh light of reality. Sure, that shove is disguised with a distinguished looking diploma and a fancy ceremony and all of that pomp and circumstance, but at its core, it's a shove, a push off a cliff when we least suspect it. And these last few weeks I've just been trying to deal with that feeling of being pushed over a cliff when I least suspected it, when I was just trying to enjoy the view. It sounds melodramatic, but I feel fairly confident in saying that anyone who has graduated from college or high school or just undergone any big change in life understands what I mean. We're led to believe that graduation is a neat and tidy punctuation mark on this rambling, run-on sentence called college. It's supposed to be a moment, a period, open and close. But that's the lie. We don't cross a stage and magically feel okay or confident or sure of anything at all. We don't take our diplomas and with a single glance, a tearful smile, say goodbye. These parts of life are not what we would like to think they are, clearly defined actions with a beginning and an end. Saying goodbye, moving on, letting go, graduation - all of these things are anything but defined. They're stubborn in their refusal to be tidy or polite. They hold on to us with a ferocity we couldn't have guessed, and they stay with us. But we still try to fit them into these nice little boxes, because it's expected, because graduation is supposed to be a one day event, captured for ever on our mom's cameras. And so for the last few weeks I've been trying to think of graduation in just those terms, and when I couldn't, when it kept hurting, days after I crossed the stage, I just went into avoidance mode. And now, I guess I'm just trying to accept that it's going to be a process, one I may well be going through forever. These pivotal growing up moments are not easy, they're not simple. Just because something is common doesn't make it routine. If we were really honest with ourselves we'd admit that growing up really just a series of heartbreaks, some tiny, some huge. It's important to grow up, it makes us better, but let's just come out and say it - it hurts like hell.

seriously?

Because I couldn't have said it better myself. Although I do have to continue my own rant a little further. Because seriously? What the hell is wrong with our country where a negative campaign attack can center around a candidate being elitist, when a candidate tries to make his or herself more appealing by acting the part of the average American? I don't want an average American for president. Because we're not voting for a common man/woman. Can't we all agree that we want someone uncommon, someone great? Jon Stewart is right. Presidents should be "embarrassingly superior" to the rest of us. They should use words we've never heard of, speak seventeen languages, excel at rocket science as well as literary scholarship. They should know the detailed history of Yemen just as well as they know American history. Hell they should be able to talk to animals, levitate objects with their minds, and design a french fry powered space ship. All hyperbole aside, the point is that the president of the United States is unquestionably the most powerful person in this nation, and arguably the most powerful person in the entire world. So why the frick do we have this rhetoric now a days of beer swilling, shot gun toting, "everyday" presidents? What went wrong that made us stop seeing the leader of this nation as the culmination of our collective possibility? And don't people realize they're insulting themselves when they talk about mainstream America or the heartland as something common and simple. Can we stop catering to the so called Nascar demographic or soccer moms? These people aren't idiots yet the media and everyone else has deemed them unresponsive to any candidate who dare use a multi syllable word or make a frank statement about the status of American values. So for the last time can we, us everyday Americans, prove everyone wrong and vote for a president who is elite, who we would never grab a beer with because he or she would bore us to death talking about things we've never even heard of. This isn't a party planner for the local frat house we're talking about people. It's the leader of the free world! So if I hear one more person say, "well President Bush is so cute. He seems like such a fun guy" I'm going to slap them right upside the head. Clearly fun and cute don't pay dividends when it comes to leading the world's hegemonic power. Eloquent, competent, cerebral - those things might.

And rant ended.

i would sway for jason castro

So one blessing in disguise of the horrible writer's strike and subsequent lack of new, scripted television has been my re-devotion to reality television. Now I hear the naysayers, reality television is soulless, soul destroying, blah blah blah. And well some of it is (cough any VH1 "love/dating" show featuring an aging pop/rap/who knows star cough). But some reality television is just plain old good and entertaining. I scoffed at the Real Housewives of Orange County, frankly turned my nose up at it. But I watched about five minutes of the Real Housewives of NYC and fell in love. These women are alternately crazy, pretentious, snobby, and ridiculous but they are for whatever reason also compelling. My favorites are Alex and her English(?) hubby and american born and raised sons named Francois and I think, Johan. I mean you could not script such pretentiousness. But none of these people seem particularly nasty or mean spirited or cruel, none of which are aspects that are engaging to me. They're just really fun to watch. And another show that former picky television Liz wouldn't give the time of day and now loves - Top Chef. I would not even entertain the idea of watching this show, despite many, many people telling me I should. I just couldn't see what could be fun about watching a competition about cooking. I thought it would make me first hungry, then angry because I would be hungry and unable to taste the food being made. And who wants to watch something that makes then hungry and angry? But I gave it a chance (again because at least for another week or so there's freaking nothing new on), and again realized I am a dumb ass who should never again form opinions about something without first checking it out. It's great, all of these crazy creative types running around screaming about shallots and reductions and truffle oil like they're wartime medics with lives on the line. Obviously cooking and fashion are very different things, but it reminds me of Project Runway just because these are obviously talented people who are on a reality show because of a separate career they already have pursued, not on a reality show to start a career. And again, their competitiveness makes for absolutely awesome television because you're suddenly on the edge of your seat, finding yourself caring deeply about how a beignet is going to turn out. And isn't that what any art is supposed to do (and yes, I count television as an art form, go ahead and laugh), make you care deeply about something that has absolutely nothing to do with you or your life?
So the other reality show that I've become addicted to (although to be fair I was addicted to this show's earlier seasons) is American Idol. I've kind of strayed away since the Fantasia season, but again without anything else to watch I've become an addict again. And the great thing about American Idol is that, despite its overwhelming corporate tie ins (Coke we get it, you give this show massive amounts of money, now can you please stop beating us over the head with it?) it's at its core a talent show. It's big and expensive and shiny, but strip all of the other stuff away and there are these kids who honestly believe that they might be fulfilling their dreams. And that's such a corny way of phrasing it, but the best part of American Idol is that it's an inherently corny premise. But I'm perfectly okay with corny when it's sincere and earnest. And you watch these performances, and see how desperately some of these people want this, and it's absolutely touching, in a way no show hosted by Ryan Seacrest and featuring Paula Abdul should be touching. I just think you have to be a really cynical person to not be at least in a small way affected by watching these kids compete for something that they honestly (and with good reason) believe will change their lives. And I really like all of the remaining contestants (except for you Kristy Lee Cook, I'm sorry, the second you picked "I'm Proud to be an American", the schmaltziest and most manipulative of patriotic songs, you were dead to me). But I think I've finally decided my favorite is Jason Castro. It happened last night when he sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow", the ukulele, Hawaiian-ish version. And while he might not be this power house vocalist, I can actually see myself going to a Jason Castro concert. Because the way he sings, it reminds me of why I love live music. And there are a thousand reasons why I do. But the best reason I can articulate is that live music is this unique process where an artist is putting their whole selves out there, taking something deeply personal and private, and displaying it for public consumption. And it's true of all live music, but sometimes it gets hidden behind pyrotechnics and stage dancing and crazy lights. But every one and a while you go to a concert, usually at a tiny venue, and there's just some guy or gal alone on stage with a guitar and an imperfect, beautiful voice. And that's the purest form of live music there is. It's at these shows that I find myself tearing up for no reason at a random moment or verse, just because of the sheer improbability of it all, the way normal human restraint and politeness are thrown aside for a little while and people connect with each other in this perfect, impossible little way. And it's the same when I watch Jason Castro. There's a vulnerability and honesty in the way he sings. American Idol is by no means a small stage, and a lot of the singers this year are great and really use the stage as a big, coliseum like platform. But when Jason Castro sings, he could be in a coffee house or at the corner of a noisy dive bar. And it's not musical perfection or the loudest, biggest show you could see. But it gets to the essence of why I would go to any lengths to see live music. Because when it's good and when it's pure, live music is a gesture, a connection, a rare moment of human honesty between a room of complete strangers.

liz lemon makes me feel better about my life

So I had this revelatory moment the other week right? I "found my bliss", decided to focus on the positive, etc., etc. hippie-babble. Annd I'm trying, honestly. But well, as my life as chosen to do lately, it keeps hitting me over the head with the bad. I don't want this blog to become a laundry list of things I feel sorry for myself about, that's not entertaining to anyone, least of all myself. But for honesty's sake and because I think it will make it better to put this all into writing, in the week or so since I wrote my "epiphany of wonderful" blog the following has happened. My brother called me and told me that my cat, Elmer, died. In recent years Elmer has become far more my mother's cat than mine. He wasn't very young but not particularly old and I don't really know the details other than it happened suddenly and unexpectedly. Despite the fact that he's my mom's pride and joy, it's not a good feeling when one of your pets dies, whether he sleeps on your bed at night or not. He was actually my Christmas present, about nine or ten years ago I guess. I wanted a dog sooo badly, had asked for one at every available opportunity, but my parents refused, and Elmer was the compromise. I, being the very devious, ten or eleven year old that I was, found out about Elmer by sneaking into my mom's closet to look for Christmas presents. There was a folder from the adoption shelter with a picture of him inside, a cute little gray fur-ball. And torture of all tortures, I had to put the folder back and pretend I knew nothing. I don't remember how long I had to wait but it must have killed me, despite the fact that I told any non family member I could about my future kitten. So Christmas day comes around, and there's nothing under the tree that looks like it could remotely hold a kitten, unless my parents were shockingly unaware that animals needed air. So I open a package with a kitten guide book in it, and hopefully I was a good enough actor that my parents thought it was a surprise. Because of our annual Christmas party with hordes of family, my parents wanted to wait to get him until things settled down the next day. So after killing myself waiting before Christmas, I have to wait one more day. We finally went to the shelter the next day, and as soon as we walk in there comes wee, little Elmer, right up to us. It was one of those places where the kittens run around the office, and if I'm remembering right Elmer was wearing a red bow in anticipation of our arrival, but even if that's not true I knew right away he was mine. Now I'm not a cat person, per se. Maybe it's why Elmer eventually attached himself to my mom. But I did love him, for all of his neurotic ways. And I'll miss him when I go home. But most of all it breaks my heart for my mom, because I know how much she loved him, how he slept on her bed every night, which was a comfort because of how much traveling my dad does. It's one of the weirder aspects of growing up that I've noticed, how we start worrying about our parents for the first time, not in the worry sense when you're little and you're afraid something bad will happen to them and change your life, but in the worry sense when you're not living with them anymore and it makes you hurt to think of these one time pillars of stability in your life, as being human and vulnerable and sad. So anyway, the only reason my cat dying hasn't even seemed that bad is because a week ago my aunt's boyfriend passed. In most conversation I would refer to him as my uncle because he's been a part of our family for so long, and he truly was a part of our family. Now I know my loss is absolutely nothing compared to my aunt and cousins and his immediate family, but it still hurts and makes me really sad. I don't want to get into it any further other than to say he will be truly missed.

So anyway, that's been my week. And today I spent Easter Sunday in my room doing the mountain of school work and reading I have piled up. So basically, yes I feel sorry for myself because I've had a really hard week, on top of a pretty hard semester, and I'm just waiting for good things to start replacing all of the bad ones. And I know that day will come, hopefully sooner than later, but it still sucks in the meantime. So anyways, to refer to the title of this blog, this is what I do when I feel awful and sad like I've felt these last few days. I put in my first season DVDs of 30 Rock, and every time it makes me feel better. Obviously it makes me laugh and that helps, but there is something about Tina Fey's Liz Lemon that always makes me feel like I'll be okay. And no I'm not crazy. I realize this is a television show, and thus fictional, but I've never bought into the idea that tv is just meaningless entertainment. You can watch a sad movie or show and feel empathy or compassion that you might otherwise not have felt. Or you can watch a funny one when you're going through something tough and get some comfort. And I feel like we all have a show or a character that we just get, and relate to, and can watch over and over again on DVD to cheer ourselves up with. And I relate to and am cheered up by Liz Lemon. Her life seems to be a constant mess. She's awkward and dorky and watches Designing Women in the middle of the night. We both agree that going home and eating a block of cheese and watching that show about midgets makes everything better. And when my life is feeling like the mess it has been lately, I know that it's not just me. We're all trying and bumbling and going through bad stuff. We're all a little bit Liz Lemon (and yes I realize how cheesy that sounds but I honestly don't care). So after a good ten hours of school work, I'm going to go take my tired, messy self to bed, eat a Caburry Cream Egg and watch 30 Rock. If any of you ever feel crappy, I suggest you try it.