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.
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.)
(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.
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?
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!
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.
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 person isn’t necessarily your soul mate. Not necessarily your lover. This person is… something else.
Someone special.
Someone you can’t. get. rid. of.
That’s right – I’m talking about friends by default. Or maybe it just starts out that way. Initially, you might be drawn together due to circumstances beyond your control. But it doesn’t take long for the dynamic to change. You no longer simply acknowledge the other’s presence in your life – you begin to like and, Fates willing, expect it.
This isn’t just a friend or a short-lived acquaintance. You can go for months, sometimes even years, without speaking – not due to any particular reason or rift, but simply for the perfectly understandable fact that life occasionally gets in the way – and then carry on right where you left off when one of you finally makes the call.
It’s like no time passed at all.
Is there a word for these people?
I’m fortunate because my life is filled with people like this.
People like Alaina. (Remember her kitchen? I finally have the “after” pictures. They’re burning a hole in my email right now.)
Alaina and I came together out of necessity. She needed a roommate and I needed a place to live. But we stayed together, long after I moved out, through mutual co-dependency.
The emotional kind.
We lived together at college in Ohio. Her parents “adopted” me, taking me in for various holidays and family weekends since I was so far from home. I moved back to Nebraska during my sophomore year to help with some family things and take a 5,500 mile road trip. You know, normal stuff. Alaina finished school in Ohio. I moved to Georgia, finished my degree, and got married. She moved an hour away to Florida and earned her Master’s. Then Alaina moved to North Carolina and got married. I moved an hour away to North Carolina and bought a house. She stayed in North Carolina and bought a house and got pregnant. I stayed in North Carolina and…. well sorry Mom, I’m not sure I want to follow her there.
But my point is, Alaina and I take turns following each other through life’s milestones. We are meant to be. We don’t have to try. Our relationship just is.
And I have to say, when I think about it, that’s one of the best feelings in the world.
Congratulations, Alaina and Dirk! Our lives are about to change again, and I’m so happy I get to be a part of it.
*I really, really, really wanted to use the baby bump picture, but I’m fairly certain Alaina would cut me off from things like finished kitchen photos, basil mayo with sweet potato fries, “mom” and “dad” and their Tennessee Snot wine, and, most important, my soon-to-be niece or nephew. And who can live without Tennessee Snot?
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 especiallyhere.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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:
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.
It’s one of those things that I actually felt coming. I can’t describe it. A couple of months ago, I had high, high hopes for this thing happening, but after not hearing anything, and then not hearing anything, and then, finally, not hearing anything, my thoughts turned negative.
So now I can’t decide if my thoughts turned negative because I somehow knew it wasn’t going to happen, or if it didn’t happen because my thoughts turned negative.
Either way, the envelope was there, sitting on my kitchen counter this morning. (How it got to the counter and managed to sit all night without me knowing about it, I have yet to figure out.) But the envelope only confirmed my suspicions. Had things gone the way I wanted them to go, I would have gotten a phone call – not a nondescript, cold little envelope, the weight of which made it feel like I was holding a twenty pound dumbbell.
On my chest.
I opened it anyway, already knowing what it said – that, for some reason or another, I would not be donating bone marrow to my potential match. I would not be saving a life.
It turns out the reason is not because, after extensive blood testing, they determined I’m not a great match. It’s because the patient is no longer a candidate for receiving bone marrow. Which, I have to say, is news that likely bodes far worse for the patient than it does for me.
But I still feel bummed.
I wanted to help.
I wanted to do something worthwhile.
I wanted to do something that meant something to someone.
But I’m starting to realize… It’s not really about what I want, is it?
I’m going to stay on the Department of Defense Bone Marrow Donor list, for which I signed up when I worked for the Army a couple of years ago and promptly forgot about until they called me just before Christmas. If you’re not affiliated with the Department of Defense but still want to consider putting yourself on the National Marrow Donor list (at no commitment to you – there will always be a choice about whether or not you want to donate, right up until the end), check out their website, www.marrow.org.
Let me know if you have any questions.
*Title taken from lyrics to Celebrity Skin, by Hole.
1. I don’t really miss making money. Not that much. I miss being good at my job, and I miss many of my old co-workers (a fact that was only emphasized last night when I was able to spend some quality time with them).
But the money? Only when I have to do things I’d rather pay someone else to do. Like clip my dogs’ nails. Because while my dogs are really actually very good about letting me do it, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m still terrible with a nail file. And then things like this happen:
Okay. It doesn’t look that bad. But it’s really hard to set the aperture and shutter speed while picking a focal point all with one hand because you’re trying to take a picture of the underside of your other arm reflected in a mirror, all while trying not to make your typical, scrunchy “concentration face.” But it does look a tad more gnarly in person.
2. Check back this afternoon, because I’m going to be writing a post about Valentine’s Day. Because, you know – it’s like my favorite. Holiday. Ever. (Riiiiiight.) I don’t really want to do it. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from the world of blogging this week, it’s that V-Day is not to be avoided. Especially when you have a story that involves tacky t-shirts, broken dreams, and Carmen Electra.
