Sharing Space

Up "early" (yes, 8:45 is skeleton-groaningly early for me) to spot-treat blouses and aprons, which process consists of rubbing at red wine and marinara stains with a ghetto dishsoap+water+bleach mixture and muttering under my breath about wearing whites at an Italian restaurant.  This takes place in my office, which by the way gets great morning light, especially very early (I'm almost never awake and useful enough to appreciate it).

Over the past couple months, I've attempted to transform the office from "that room where we put the crap we don't want to think about right now" to an actual functioning workspace. I think I've mostly succeeded; the desk is usually clear enough to write on (hypothetically, of course), and the futon is an appropriately cozy spot to curl up and read. Also, in addition to the good light, this is currently more or less the cleanest room in the house (albeit full of stuff everywhere). All in all, it's shaping up to be what I always intended it to be--a room where I could write/read/whatever separate from the space(s) in which I sleep, eat, entertain, etc. The restoration of this room has also proved to be quite timely; since Boy's return home for the summer, I have had to abruptly switch gears back from living in severe solitude to couples living, and the office provides a nice little retreat from video game noises or boys' night in.

Anyway, I had put together this room with writing in mind. There are no less than five separate notebooks surrounding me on this desk, plus various scraps of paper taped to the wall with journal submission deadlines and slightly threatening self-reminders to write, goddammit. And of course, my first rejection letter hangs proudly (or whatever) by the door.

But despite all of these good intentions, my writing implements and materials have quietly been gathering dust as they disappear beneath the uniforms and detritus sloughed off after a long day (or evening, or both) of being a waitron (also relegated to the office). The ironing board gets more use than the desk, and the submission deadlines go unheeded. Such a blunt and concrete representation of how quickly workaday life can suffocate creativity (passion? not really sure what the right word is here)-- if you let it. I am more than a bit weak and cowardly when it comes to this particular aspect of life. It has defeated me many times before. But I will get the upper hand again, and soon.

But yeah, now I have to go iron a blouse for a Sunday double. Life.

She's got a chicken to ride

Whew! This week has been a bit hectic, what with job training and all. Actually, the training itself, though pretty intensive, hasn't been that bad...however, procuring the very specific uniform took some running around town, which had to be squeezed in between the actual training shifts. Turns out, it is really difficult to find a white, long-sleeved button-down oxford shirt (for women) with a left breast pocket and buttons on the collar. And it is impossible to find one that fits me at all well. Also, I had to learn how to iron. My mother was all too happy to pass on this piece of domestic wisdom, but turns out I am really bad at ironing. It makes me incredibly anxious; I keep freaking out about re-wrinkling what I've already ironed and have to go back and redo it. Stressful. Anyway, "graduated" from training a day early, so I get to start picking up shifts and making money ASAP. Because I am a rockstar server (warning: impending list-format post about being a server).

Sidebar: It seems like some kind of mild existential defense mechanism that the word "rockstar" gets tossed around so much in the restaurant industry, especially regarding servers. I mean, we are pretty much the opposite of rockstars--all hustle and bustle and underappreciated (I would love to meet some servers with groupies). I will admit it does take a hell of a knack for performance to pull off your third double in a row on no sleep, but the appellation seems just a tad misguided. Yeah, I'll take it, though.

My brain's in a bit of a fog right now, so I'm not sure I can keep this whole word production thing up for much longer tonight. I will close out with a mention of the awesome site Awkward Stock Photos, which I just cannot stop looking at, especially with my earlier venture into that scene. Those inexplicably random images, for me, perfectly capture what goes on inside peoples' heads. I mean, someone had to think of it, but there is just something about an image of a girl writing intently with a comically oversized pencil that smacks of an endearingly earnest attempt at faithful translation of thought. Consider all of those bizarre mental images and misheard phrases (also mondegreens) that flit through your head on a daily basis ("Wrapped up like a douche..."). The people generating these stock photos are making a valiant effort to bring these tangled mind-thread out into the world, in share-able image format. For that, they should be commended. And their results laughed at. Yay The Internet.