Armageddon, she comes

Many times I'd planned to be much more than who I am

Dear customers,

Stop stealing my pens. This is your last warning.

Cordially,
Cathi

Call it hubris, but I like to think that I'm fairly successful in most things I do. Sometimes I have physical proof, like trophies or some sort of certificate with official looking calligraphy. Other times it's simply a mental comparison to the people around me who are doing the same thing.

I don't think it's any sort of innate talent or Jedi mind trick that allows me to float near the top. If that was true, I'd be "the best" way more often, then, well, almost never. I'll leave being "the best" to the Lindas and Sarah Bradys of the world. I don't recall exactly what my parents raised me to be or do, but I do know I have a tendency to want to be "good" at anything I do.

It's a bit of a matter of pride, I think, instilled in my wee years as a Haughty Gifted Student. I was always set apart from my peers, so I naturally tend to want to be in that (generally inconsequential) "upper echelon". I'm Cathi. I'm good at things. I do things well. It's what I do. I don't necessarily want to or need to (or, hell, can) be the best, but I do perform above average.

These somewhat boastful thoughts are brought to you by a conversation with a regular customer who commented that it's rare to find people, like myself, who care about their job, especially in the restaurant business.

I felt the compulsion to clarify: Yes, I care about my job, but not because of the job itself. I couldn't care less if I build sales or uphold "the brand". I care about my job because I'm Cathi Martin. I care that I do things well, and therefore care about doing my job well. I'm okay with being ego maniacal, I'm not okay with being a tool.

And so, I will continue to bartend and continue to hold my place on the laughable Quality Team, because it's how I roll. But please, don't ask me for ideas on how to increase customer attendance. I don't know, and I don't care.

I, robot, will never die,
Catherine

PS If I die in a tornado tonight, I want my tombstone to read "Damn you Joliet Jackhammers"

Condescension, idiocy

I would die for you one time, but never again

Of all the various tones of voice a person can take with me, condescension is my least favorite. I can handle most other insulting ways of speaking, but an assumption of intellectual superiority mixed with pity has a special way of grating on my nerves. I can smile and be polite in the face of anger, annoyance, frustration, and even outright derision, but the instant the rate of speech slows down, the pitch gets sing-songy, and the eyebrows raise incredulously, my patience drops to zero.

There must be some unidentified gamma ray produced by The Spotlight that enlarges the ego and shrinks the empathy gland of those caught in it. Actors are more famous for their superiority complex than they are for their skill at their craft, directors even more so. Radio personalities are no different, notorious for their "my way or the highway" attitudes. While it's commendable to beat the odds and become one of The Favored Few in any industry that requires creative talent and skill, it strikes me as odd that those who succeed also claim intellectual dominance over those less marketable. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it's the peons and "gofers" who make The Spotlight possible. It seems like The Favored Few should be nicer if they want their precious Spotlight to keep shining.

Of course, as a peon myself, my loyalties are somewhat Viva la Revolution in nature.

It's too bad reverse psychology doesn't work backwards. Which, I suppose, would just make it regular-type psychology, but how is it fair that it's only a one-way process? There's nothing more I would like to do right now than intentionally screw up this Jackhammers game since Il Dusche seems to expect me to, but, as satisfying as that may be, it won't endear me to The Powers That Be. And they have the Pen that writes the Paycheck, an no one messes with the payroll department. Except embezzlers, I guess.

Jackhammers,
Thrine

WJOL sux0rz

Someday we'll get nostalgic for disaster

They say that when you want to consider the value of time, to ask various people. The value of a month, ask a woman who just gave birth to a premature baby. The value of a second, ask the person who just avoided an accident. As I sit here at WJOL, heading into hour number four, I've fogotten the value of time. In fact, I've forgotten the value of being busy. I can't remember what it's like to not be bored. I'm a bored board-op. A bored-op, if you will.

I'm one of those unfortunate people who can hear the high-pitched electronic signals. If a television is on nearby, I'll know. This was a point of contention for ex-roomie Kate and I, when you had to (gasp) manually turn our dorm's TV on and off, so Kate, whenever she was done with watching her show, would just turn the TV to an input channel, or put it on mute. She couldn't hear the signal, so it was as good as off for her. I, on the other hand, would wake up from a nap, annoyed, with a migraine. This dog-like super power of mine is good for conserving electricity, but very bad for my chosen career path, what with all the equipment that makes all sorts of fun noises.

Annoyance of the minute: WJOL is holding me hostage. Apparently "Sure, I can work between 11 and 3" means "I can be here indefinately, because my other job which needs me there at 4 isn't important at all". This is now the second week in a row that I've had to call Friday's to tell them I was going to be late due to a radio conflict. This is the last time I work a radio job prior to an important committment. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I'm one fooling away from burning the studio down, Office Space stylie.

Suddenly, time seems very important. Funny how this happens.

Annoyance update: Apparently, this is my fault. I should have known that whenever one works a game, one stays until the end. Nevermind that I didn't know that. Nevermind that no one told me there was a game. I guess it's my fault for expecting my employer to respect me. Friday's has spoiled me, it seems.

Enough ranting. The bright side of this is I now have more time to ponder whether or not I should stop for gas and fast food on my way back to Bolingbrook. On one hand, it's not Friday's fault that my free hour went away. On the other hand, spending 15 extra minutes to not run out of gas on the way there, and not pass out from starvation might be worth it. The philosophical questions are mounting.

As I think I'm actually on the verge of transcending from "annoyed" to "angry", it's time to get my fingers off the keyboard.

Cathi out.

history

We don't believe the words, we just love the way they sound

I'm thinking that opening quotation might be cursed, as every entry I have tried to write in the last month has begun with it. You'd think I would learn, but a lunatic devotion to "try, try again" has always been my way of doing things.

The first time I heard anyone say something negative about Martin Luther King Jr. I was absolutely floored. According to every account I have read or seen, the man was a saint. Not only did he preach non-violent protest and advocate for the rights of an entire people, but I also heard his tears cured cancer and a choir of angels sang at his birth.

History and Street Name Bureaucracies have been kind to MLK Jr. and our textbooks seem to have overlooked the media frenzy that surrounded him back in his day. Mistresses, drugs, and scandal abounded, some rumors of which may have been true. I wouldn't say that too loudly, I don't want the NAACP or ACLU on my ass. They're scrappy SOB's, and I'm no good in a fight. Ask Linda.

My point is that our history gets written for us and our memories fade fast. My lack of blog entries lately has stemmed from the sheer fact that I haven't had the free time to have epiphanies or meditate on the idiosyncrasies of life, and simply chronicling the non-adventures of bar tending and academia has seemed dull and silly. However... if I don't write about my life, who will?

Barring the fact that everyone has the desire to be remembered in some fashion, suppose I get named as the Pirate King in a strange twist of fate involving loopholes in The Code and a devious Captain, and the tales of my life are to be sang in beer halls forever more. I can't think of anyone worthy enough to write my biography than me. I would hate just as much to be vilified as I would to be sainted, for I am neither The Penguin nor Mother Theresa.

That being said:

-Bar tending is boring/stressful, but profitable.
-There are only a couple projects standing in my way of summer.
-I just bought 4 of 7 seasons of Gilmore Girls for $20 each.
-I'm pretty sure Durbin's amazing.
-Miranda is trapsing around Europe and I'm mega jealous.
-My bedroom window makes the wind howl, a problem I need fixed NOW.
-I get to live downtown Naperville while I'm in school next year.
-Only 23 more weeks of my college career. Yikes.
-Board opping at WJOL will put you in a coma.

Baby Jesus in the woods,
Cathi

overwhelmed and underslept

With envy for the solid ground

Dear web log,
I will be treating you like a diary today, and actually acknolwedging that fact.
Love,
Cathi

Sometimes my friends have the annoying habit of asking me "what's new?", as if my life is a series of exciting happenstances, instead of a monotonous cycle of "school, work, speech, no sleep".

Let's see, new things... new things. I've been hired into my first "real" radio station job. If I'm not mistaken, it entails me operating the board for WJOL AM 1340 for a couple hours a week. Nothing earth shattering or major, but a resume builder.

Brian mentioned a friend of his is moving to the city soon, and he's thinking about going with 'em. I think he was anticipating some sort of big, dramatic conversation where I may or may not have cried or gotten upset, but after him foundering around for about a minute I just told him to do what he thinks is best. I'm perfectly capable of figuring out what to do with myself. Plus I have parents I can live with should the occasion arise. I'm honestly not all that worried.

I still haven't had my State of the Union conversation, partly because I'm a big chicken when it comes to discussing "feelings" and "opinions", and partly because it's not of vital importance, yet. I keep getting clues that the conversation would tell me all the good things I want to know, so it seems silly to have to drag myself through something as painful as a Real Conversation.

One Nationals down, one to go, and I'm exhausted. All I want to do is sleep all the time. Alex said he doesn't understand how I can get so tired, but I don't really see the mystery in it. You average 5 hours of sleep a night and spend your days running back and forth across town, and cumulating them by standing for 5-8 hours having to be friendly to drunk people. I had fun at AFA, probably because it was a small group and the entire thing was pretty laid back. I even did pretty okay, but if you're not a Forensicator, be prepared for a long, confusing explanation of the numbers involved.

Here is what I want: I want to be able to wake up in the morning and look forward to my day. I want to be able to feel rested and energized. I want to have one or two nights a week where I can hang out with the few friends I have. I want to be able to spend relaxing time with Alex; not this hyper-intesne we-have-to-make-the-most-of-these-5-hours. I want to be able to afford to go out and do things, like see movies, go bowling, or even take a spontaneous weekend road trip. I want to have the time and energy to keep my room clean. I want to be able to have long coffee conversations with my sister. I'm still waiting to go on a photographic alley adventure with Miranda.

I just need a break, really. Freaking speech team.

That is all. Thank you,
Cathi