We are made from the sharpest things you say

We are young and we don't care; your dreams, and your hopeless hair--we never wanted it to be this way for all our lives.

Back in June I spent a weekend at a youth leadership conference with Alex's parish acting as the token female chaperone, where it was made abundantly clear to me that I have forgotten what it is like to be a teenager. I'm not quite so far removed from the experience that I think dying my hair funny colors and wearing silly hats will help me relate, but I have forgotten what it feels like to be my own sun.

It's not that the kids at the conference were selfish and egocentric--this was a group of Good Kids at a church retreat learning how to be more effective leaders, after all--but all of their thoughts, emotions, worries, and joys were always of the most pressing concern. Each and every single one of the teens I got to know over that weekend were on their own, private adventure in which they were the main protagonist. Their hushed conversations during Mass were more like stage-whispers than actual stealth, they listened to their peers tell stories as they eagerly awaited the right moment to interject with their own anecdote or opinion, and the vim and vigor for life were undeniable in their eyes as they swept their gazes around the room.

They updated Facebook constantly on their verboten cell phones.

I'd forgotten how intense life could be, where I was fully cognizant that each and every single breath I drew was inextricably linked to my own destiny, and I'd forgotten how important my life could be. College and post-college life (I refuse to consider this The Real World, the bills aren't soul-crushing enough and my job is too fun to be reality) imposed both a sense of philosophical relativism and a practical awareness of the importance of others. It is with a combination of this more mature panoramic view and (thanks to reacquainting myself with music I used to love) a visceral reminder of teenage passion that I have read about the rioting in England, and found my reaction to be, above all, one of profound horror.

The media accounts of the four days of riots all seem to agree that the rioting was, by and large, perpetrated by youths, many as young as fourteen, and as far as anyone can tell, after the very first protest march to demand justice for the man who was shot by police, the violence, the looting, the fires, and the deaths were nothing more than sport.

Five people are dead. Three of whom were young men trying to defend their neighborhood against the gangs of youth who were attempting to destroy their homes. A family whose apartment was burned down were almost killed when teenagers began throwing burning bottles at the car they were seeking refuge in. Hundreds of people are homeless, dozens of business owners have lost everything they have, and hundreds of people were hospitalized--mostly non-rioters.

I remember what it is like to want to be a part of something bigger, and I remember what it is like to get caught up in a moment. What terrifies me the most about what transpired in England is that I find it completely believable. My friends and I were good kids when we were teenagers. We generally did well in school, we were fiercely dedicated to a club, we didn't drink or smoke, most of us weren't having sex, and if we broke the law it was laughable misdemeanors, yet it doesn't take too much stretching of my imagination to imagine us getting sucked into something as epic as rioting. I don't believe that the majority of the young people out rioting in England are bad, sociopathic people. Some of them? Sure. But not all of them, and the idea that it can be so easy for so many normal people to cause so much damage, to be so callous and unthinking makes the breath catch in my lungs.

I don't know what there is to be done, I don't know if anything can be done to prevent something like this from happening again. I just know that I'm going to be very kind to the teenagers in my life.

Knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back

Allow me to announce publicly how bummed I am that football is happening this year. I would have found a winter season without the obsession, misogyny, homophobia, and pseudo-aggression that accompanies the NFL quite refreshing; also it would have allowed me to successfully avoid buying a Bears jersey for work for the 5th year in a row.

My current quest to get myself an apartment is an unanticipated exercise in assessing my core values. Nothing really makes you pause and turn a puzzled eye inward like hearing the phrase "never again the hand-washing times!" leave your mouth. Despite living a whole entire quarter century without killing myself, getting a call from a debt collector, or setting anything/anyone major on fire, there's a number of things that have called for reexamination. For example:

My relationship with money
I've always known that I'm a saver, not a spender. When I get a paycheck (or organize my rubber band bank at the end of the night) my first and strongest impulse is to put it straight into my savings account so that I may gaze upon the pleasantly large balance and rub my hands together in diabolical glee. "Yes," I think to myself, "look at all my money. Tomorrow there shall be more! Good, good." I was also raised to be a bargain hunter, to do a lot of research and spend a lot of time so as to find the optimum mix of savings and quality. Now confronted with the outrageous overinflation of rent prices, I've discovered that I react with fist-clenching anger with no one to vent my righteous indignation upon other than my poor family (who, if you're Seester, aren't terribly sympathetic to my plight).

My relationship with others
The simplest solution to my residential tight-waddiness would be to get a roommate. Splitting exorbitant rent two ways would result in a completely manageable amount to be spent each month, and honestly not a lot of lost independence. However, ask me if I want a roommate and watch the involuntary grimace cross my face. Maybe it's the fact that I'm forced to be social all day/night at work and am thus spoiled for my personal time, or maybe I'm just finally owning up to the fact that I'm a crotchety, inconsiderate lady at heart, but the idea of having to share living space leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I've never really been good at sharing; it was something I did growing up under duress and even then not very well, let alone graciously, and now that I'm a Grown-Ass-Woman I'm making sure that I don't have to share if I don't absolutely have to.

My relationship with expectations
I have a lot of high ideals for myself, which are coming into conflict with the aforementioned tight-waddiness. Can I live with outdated appliances, a community laundry room, hand-washing my dishes, noisy neighbors, and ugly carpets? Of course. Do I want to? Oh hail naw. I'm twenty five years old, I'm doing fairly well for myself, and if I can afford not to live in some dump, then I won't. I find nothing glamorous in slumming it. "Luxury" costs extra money though. I'm still not sure which I value more.

My...relationship
Everyone who isn't my dad or my sister has asked me the question "what about The Boy? Why aren't you guys living together?" and to that, I say "mooooom stop bugging me about it!" This has actually required the most amount of introspection and list making, and is something The Boy and I need to discuss beyond him jokingly(?) bugging me to hurry up and find a place so he can come live a life of leisure with his Sugar Mama.

Other things I'd rather not talk about:
-Our nationally elected officials
-The economy
-"Why on earth would you come back here from the city???"
-My weight (yes I've lost some, please stop exclaiming over how noticeable it is, as it's making me feel fat retroactively)
-Gas prices

18 over par,
Cathi

Love, got the windy city on my back

You know, I think I might miss it here after all.

Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements

According to Blogger's wonderful ability to save drafts of entries the following are topics which have been on my mind but left abandoned due to lack of time or follow-through (in chronological order):

-Gunshots, more specifically how I heard them one night and did nothing about it, despite fancying myself to be the type of person who would call for help if she saw or heard something amiss.

-How much I truly resent having poor eyesight, illustrated by my blind, shuffling walk home from the hipster eye doctor one bright, sunny afternoon after my eyes were dilated.

-The appalling sexism evident in the re-opening of public examination of Chris Brown's assault of Rihanna after "S&M" was released, re: "Did you hear that song? She obviously liked being beaten up, Chris did nothing wrong, poor maligned thing!" (read as: raaaaaaaaaaaaage)

-Work ethic and a sense of responsibility, and how I have it, despite evidence that neither are requirements or even expectations at Erie St TGIF.

-My increasing itch to do better for myself when it comes to my employment because despite being happy in the moment, I'm quite frankly disappointed with how I think my job reflects upon me as a person.

-The great internal conflict I had to face when confronted with Alex's application for a job back in Kentucky, whether or not I was willing to uproot myself if he got the job and what it would say about me whichever way I chose.

-The sadness, ambivalence, and guilt that came along when my friend from high school, Kristen, passed away.

-City life, what I've learned, how I've changed, if I'm ready to leave.

This all, more or less, encompasses my last few months. My last day at Erie St. was Sunday which was almost disappointingly anticlimactic after eleven days of constant, busy shifts. I took a week off so I can slowly pack, and just enjoy my remaining time here on the Northside. Thus far I've been to the beach three times, slept in until I just felt like getting up, painted my nails, spent good time at good bars with some good friends I'm sad to be leaving behind, and less frivolously packed my dvds and books and swept up the living room. After the absolute nightmare that was my move into this apartment, I'm hoping to make the move out of it as pain free as possible.

Lots of Future Things are looming in my sights and tying my tummy up in knots, but I have faith things will settle down soon enough.

Born This Way

One of the biggest factors in my decision not to pursue even higher education is the fact that my least favorite part of educating myself was doing the research. No amount of scintillating class discussions, speech and debate trophies as tall as I am, or waived tuition  can convince me that I want to spend any more time on doing research; which is, you know, 100% of what you have to do to create theses or dissertations. I can read the hell out of anything you give me, and even draw my own conclusions when reading articles and studies in conjunction with each other but the process of tracking down information is to me what picking socks up off the floor and making the bed is to an 8 year old. I don't wanna, and you can't make me.

I just finished watching the documentary "Fat Head", comic/author Tom Naughton's response to Morgan Spurlock's "SuperSize Me". The premise is that he found SuperSize Me to be over-the-top and laughable, and set out to possibly prove Spurlock wrong. Naughton's tone the entire time was one of ironic superiority, causing me to wonder if Spurlock gave Naughton a swirlie during an intermission at Sundance in the past, though I did find myself liking Naughton and the cut of his jib. I also recall enjoying SuperSize Me and liking Morgan Spurlock as well. Troubling. Now I (as well as most people, I would hope) approach media of all sorts, especially documentaries, with a healthy dose of skepticism. I'm not as stupid or gullible as advertisers and promoters wish we all were. Fat Head made a lot of questionable claims, but it's difficult to argue with Naughton's main conclusion: this is a free country and people are different. They make different choices, they have different values, and they have different preferences (though he does deliver this with a meaningful glance over his glasses after accusing I, the watcher, of choosing to sit on a couch eating Rice Crispy Treats instead of taking up volleyball).

All in all, I've drawn the shocking and controversial conclusion that Eating is Tricky and Bodies are Weird. Last year when I was doing my personal training and struggling with a high protein, low carb diet I lost around seven pounds (the goal was fifteen), lowered my body fat percentage, and was pleased with how flat my stomach looked. Unwilling to keep up all that hard work, I reverted back to my old habits with a vengeance and as predicted by statistics gained the weight back and watched my tummy flub return. Thanks to the fancy scale Seester got me for Christmas last year I am in possession of the knowledge that today, I am ten pounds lighter than I was two months ago and a full three pounds lighter than I was when I was doing with three months of intense (for me) diet and exercise last year.

I certainly didn't do it on purpose. Armed with the basic knowledge that in order to get less flabby I'd have to eat better and exercise more I settled instead for trying to love my body the way it was. My kitchen manager tried to fight me about the fact that I had lost weight when, after he admiringly asked if I had, I responded that I didn't know, I hadn't been trying. He insisted that I must have changed something (drinking less? stopped eating at night?), so I suggested it was because I stopped eating Friday's food since we weren't allowed to hang out at the bar anymore. He looked a bit wounded. He IS in charge of that food, after all. Alls I know is that I eat a lot of fried and carbohydrate'd crap, usually in one large sitting before I go to work, drink more beer than I probably should, and avoid anything that resembles exercise like it'll give me cancer on the spot. How I've lost weight is beyond me.

What bugs me, and what was highlighted after watching Fat Head, is that I will probably never know what it is that has caused my body to become slightly healthier. It clearly varies from person to person, and diet, exercise, and health are all extremely relative. This means that in order to figure out what my ideal mixture is I will have to do, you guessed it, research--all KINDS of research, since there is literally an opinion backed by a study or PhD or MD to support every single version of diet (or lack thereof), exercise (or lack thereof), and standard of health. I am way, way too lazy to bother with that nonsense.

Seid bereit, immer bereit

I often mention my uneasy relationship with emotions. As I continue to grow, experience, and change, I'm learning more about my relationship with my feelings and, um, my feelings about my feelings. I've learned that as a human being I deserve to experience the highs and the lows that come with life, and I'm learning to take ownership of whims both sad and joyful that can't be explained away by logic or circumstance

I read a blog entry fairly recently, and when describing her process of coming to terms with a life event the woman writing the post said "I wasn't ready, and then I was." I've had this tucked away in my head ever since I read it because it was at the same time succinct and profound, and it applies to anything that is scaring you (erm, me) about the future. It gave me permission to not be ready for some things, and it made me feel better about being 25 years old and not having achieved what I've internalized as a standard of success. I know that eventually, I will be ready. That moment just hasn't happened yet for some things.

I had a moment a couple days ago, though. It was a combination of things that had happened throughout the day which culminated in one quiet moment in my car where I actually exclaimed out loud "Oh my God, I think I'm ready." I immediately doubted myself because I'm not really a believer in Lightning Bolt From Heaven moments and this revelation would certainly qualify. Because I walk a careful line between psychosis and rationality I rigorously interrogated myself as I made my way to my destination, saying some things out loud to see how the words tasted in my mouth and how they felt coming back into my ears. I was skeptical of the fact that everything felt right and wonderful when verbalizing my revelation, so I've given myself a couple weeks to see if it sticks.

It's been a few days and neither nausea nor cold sweats have appeared but, other than this none-too-subtle blog entry (I often over-estimate my cleverness and under-estimate your, Blog Reader's, powers of inference), I'm sticking to my two-week gag order. I need time to construct lists and say things out loud a few more times to rationalize an unanticipated aligning of my internal clockwork. In the meantime, I'm stepping up my search for one-bedroom apartments back in my home 'hood and beginning a countdown to my first day back at The 'Brook TGIF.

It's sixteen miles to the Promised Land

I've come to view writing in my blog as an act of domesticity. Perhaps it's because the blogs I've been reading lately have been "lifestyle blogs" (ie: someone much craftier and more motivated to write than I blogs about their everyday life), or perhaps it's because I approach blogging with the same mentality I do, say, cleaning the bathroom. I don't actually mind doing the work itself, I looooove the end result and always feel like I should get a gold star on an accomplishment board, but finding the motivation to just suck it up and do it already is a project.

I've been sick the last few days which has given me time to reflect upon past illnesses, how I deal with being sick, what "being sick" means to me, and so on. This current plague seems to be a reoccurrence of the last time I fell ill a few months ago. Last time I mostly felt "vaguely sick-ish" but had a pronounced and horrible middle-backache. I kept asking everyone at work if I was dying of meningitis. Note that sentence implies that I kept going to work. This time I had the horrible backache again, but it was preceded by a sore throat and swollen glads and appeared simultaneously with a rapid-onset fever, chills, the weakness of a kitten with worms, and a less intense but still present all-over bodyache. The sore throat and swollen glands showed up when I woke up to go to work at 6:30am Sunday and the rest showed up in exponential increases as I went about my shift.

The restaurant industry at large is often criticized, and fairly so, for being suuuuuper shady when it comes to employee health and wellness (and therefore customer health and wellness). Shifts are scheduled to the bare minimum, so an employee really can't just "call in sick". I have to find a replacement, or else my coworkers will be overworked and the customers will be underserved. Therefore, even if I've lost a limb to a rare combination of gangrene and the bubonic plague if I can't find someone to come in for me, I HAVE TO come in and work.

Does this make business sense? For the most part, no. Customers can tell when their bartender is sick and it grosses them out to have a probably contagious person handling their food and drink. They might leave to go somewhere else where there aren't visibly dying employees. They might not stay for dessert because they just want to get away from the sniffling mess that's bringing the food out. They will very likely not recommend the establishment and will think twice about coming back. On the flip side, if you just let people call in sick, guests don't know that the reason their salad is taking twenty minutes to come out, or five minutes for the one lonely bartender to get around to greeting them is because the restaurant thought it would be better for everyone if Typhoid Mary stayed home. They just know that the service sucks, and the bad cycle is begun again.

Practicalities aside, hourly restaurant employees don't get sick days. If you don't work, you don't make money. If you call in sick anyway, you might get fired. Servers, bartenders, busses, and line cooks are a dime a dozen. We're expendable and we know it, so there are a lot of factors that go into the decision of going in for your shift anyway when you're vomiting every fifteen minutes.

That said--my manager Sunday morning handled my rapid onset debilitation in a professional, employee-minded, business centered way, and I'm almost ashamed to admit that I was shocked. It's not that I don't have faith in the humanity and compassion of my bosses, it's just that I know their decisions have to be made with "Overall Guest Satisfaction" in mind, and that's often at the expense of us. I'd asked him around 9am if it'd be possible to evaluate getting me out of there when the 3rd bartender showed up at noon, because I was just getting worse and worse. He asked if I could make it until 2pm when the 4th bartender showed up. I gave an uncertain "okay...". Around 11am, after the 2nd bartender was on the clock, and when my manager walked into the bar to me sitting on the floor by the mix cooler with my head in my hands, he pulled one of the servers off the floor to have them come help out in the bar and sent me home. All shifts were still covered, and I didn't have to be there.

I'm on my way to being recovered. I had yesterday off, I found someone to cover my shift tonight, and I just noticed I have tomorrow off also. My awful back and bodyaches have gone away, as has my fever, but I'm left with a lingering sore throat, swollen glands, and my dry cough has turned into a wet, hacking one, which I think means I'm almost done being sick.

On a completely different note, Seester accepted her acceptance to the English PhD program at Boston College for the fall. I'm simultaneously elated and sad. I think the program is her dream come true and will help her become an Allstar of Academia, but, I mean, Boston's really far away :(