A Note On Sleep

A revelation I had this weekend that cannot wait for a full-length post to relay: Your day should prepare you for sleep, not the other way around.

Think about that, witches!

Weekend Superlatives

My facebook status upon returning home from my Saturday double at the restaurant reads as follows:

to the man who tipped me a dollar for bringing him a to-go box and some mustard, you are a class act and you deserve a lifetime of unequivocal contentment and peace. to the man who asked me if i'd dropped my smile, you are no gentleman at all and you deserve a lifetime of increasingly disquieting impotence occuring at the worst possible moments.‪#‎weekendsuperlatives‬ ‪#‎becarefulwhatyouwitchfor‬

You really are exposed to the best and the worst of people in my line of work. The table of thirty-somethings who complimented my guns from across the restaurant get an a plus. The bachelorette party rendered deaf by their own screaming, not so much.

I think customers and servers alike could benefit from trying to be the best part of someone's day rather than the worst.

And with that corny sentiment, this is one ketchup-dipped debutante who's putting herself to bed. Here's to the rest of the weekend.

How To Not Lose Your Shit at Work

There's a passage at my work that connects the kitchen to the bar. Actually, the passage is a brewery. I announced to one of the bartenders, on a recent afternoon, that I routinely find myself talking aloud when I'm walking through that space alone.

"What do you say?" she asked me.

 "Oh, I just give myself little pep-talks!"

She laughed and gave me a look I've grown accustomed to receiving in reaction to my more cheerful moments. We chatted about the content of these private outbursts. Then, this slow, rainy, moon-y Thursday evening, she suggested that I write a post about those talks to myself in the brewery. I've elaborated on her idea with a few of my best tips for staying sane in the soul-sucking chaos of the modern workplace. While this refers specifically to restaurant work, I think these life-saving strategies will assuage the pains of a range of jobs, especially in the service industry.

1. Preparation is everything. My shifts go much more smoothly when I've prepared: sleeping as well as I can, eating a meal, having the tools that will get me through the day, from an emergency banana, to my watch,  to a favorite essential oil. Provide for yourself and you'll be amazed how much lighter you feel before even setting foot in the building. Make sure you have any extras you need: a couple elastics, pain-killers, tissues, gum, a tampon for you and a friend, your phone charger, adjust freely. A server with a full and organized bag is a happy server.

2. Flair is real. It may have prompted the most righteous flicking off ever in Office Space, but expressing your personality with your style is one of the most honest-to-goodness ways I know to stay calm and happy in a work setting. Work drains me. Work can feel like a place where I'm erased. The right earrings, a scarf, my shirt tucked in just so--these little things help me hold onto my self. I need to wear all-black and no tank-tops, for god's sake!  I cope with the dehumanization by wearing my hair in a signature style, dressing consciously, and performing some basic grooming rituals beforehand. This can be anything from a full-blown home-spa bath experience (try epsom salts!) to just splashing cold water on my face in the bathroom and tying a bandana on my dirty hair. (Speaking of which. Dry shampoo. It will change your life). Dressing the part distinguishes between who I am at work and who I am at home, and bringing some of myself into my work attire bridges that gap.

3. Don't take it personally. I try to approach each shift as a radical experiment in practicing detachment. Whether it's a glance, a sigh, a rant, remember: it's not about you. Not taking it personally means drawing a boundary around yourself. This border of protection means you need not concern yourself with what others are thinking or experiencing in a given moment: that is theirs to deal with. The most you have done is provided a stimulus that triggered someones shit--that doesn't make it yours. Take a deep breath, notice how you are feeling, and then let it go. Not taking it personally doesn't mean you can't own up for mistakes or notice the mistakes of others--it just means you needn't identify with them. Bonus tip: When I was first starting to realize that not everything another person did was a hidden slight against me (what a revelation!) I visualized this boundary with a simple image--a glow-y bubble, a circle of light, whatever your cynical little heart can stand.

4. Don't shit-talk. Don't shit-talk yourself, don't shit-talk your co-workers, don't shit-talk your customers, don't shit-talk your boss. Resisting being drawn into negativity is doubtless one of the trickiest endeavors we face, period. But practice this credo and experience true freedom. Don't be afraid to change the subject or walk away if you feel like you're being entangled in gossip or drama. You'll be the most popular person at work if you refuse to talk shit--people will wonder how you do that thing you do. The integrity you develop by not allowing yourself to spew with the vicious abandon your id would love pays spiritual and financial dividends.

5. Take care of number one.  When you're thirsty, drink. Hungry? Eat something. Don't let the fact that you are at work and your time is being paid for make you neglect your own needs. Far better to take the thirty seconds to adjust your too-tight tights or stretch your arms over your head than remain distracted and tense. Whether it's drinking a glass of water every hour or taking a moment to apply some chap-stick, allow yourself the tiny gestures it takes to keep you feeling good.  It's insane how many times a night I hear a fellow employee mention they've been so busy they haven't been able to pee. You're not that busy. Go pee for fuck's sake. Bonus tip: Be a little fancy. Go ahead, put a slice of lemon in your water. Straighten your tie, whistle a tune, put a little more cream in your coffee.  You deserve it.

6. Get it while you can. When I run to the bathroom, I make sure to take deep breaths while I'm in there. If I'm cold, I'll pay extra attention to the warm water on my hands. If I'm hot, I'll rest a cold, wet hand on the back of my neck for a few seconds. Waiting for a drink at the bar? I stand up straight and adjust my posture with a few breaths. Being mindful when you have a minute for yourself conserves precious energy and emotional resources for when you inevitably get frazzled.

7. Manage your time. I have ADHD and staying focused for long periods of time (like 7 hour Saturday night shifts) can be difficult. I break my time into chunks (I'm going to wipe down table 20 and 23, go get more ice, then refill the linen) to get me through larger amounts of time without projecting too far into the future. I try to have a playful and elastic relationship with work time. It soothes me to have a mantra: "I can do anything for one hour," helps me a lot, so does "This is temporary." Make a (lame) game of it: I'll challenge myself not to look at the clock for as long as possible, or time myself sorting a tray of silverware.

8. Practice positive self-talk. To me, this means questioning and then filtering the content of my inner monologue. Do you put yourself down in your head or find certain phrases "This blows and I hate it and I suck," just for example, running on a loop when you're distracted or feeling poorly? Change the script. As corny as it sounds, telling yourself nice things really does help you feel nicer. I amplify this practice by talking to myself out loud if I've found that I can't censor the flow of negative judgement.  I find an opportunity to say "You can do this," or even just "You're ok and nothing is wrong right now." This anchors me in the present and reaffirms my commitment to treating myself with respect and kindness. As always, a deep breath is your cheapest, most reliable, and most accessible source of instant self-care.

9. Pay attention. When I'm wiping down those tables or scooping ice into a bucket, I notice what I'm doing: how the cold metal handle feels in my hand, the sound the ice makes as I move it, the weight of the bucket. I match my breath to this work and it becomes a brief mediation, a way of staying grounded. If there's a breeze coming through the windows, a good song on the radio, rain just about to fall, a glorious sunset, I do myself the favor of noticing it. Paying attention to what is actually happening right here and now makes it easier to stay in the zone.

10. But not too much. The beauty of practicing mindfulness is that you get to choose what you pay attention to, and you get to choose what's happening inside your own head. I dream of sections of my novel at work, write impassioned emails, enumerate the components of a perfect Sunday afternoon. What's happening inside my head is mine alone, and it can co-exist with the task at hand. I can choose to pay attention to the drunken man leering at my body, or I can choose to pay attention to the mom telling her daughters, "Wow, look how strong she is," as I'm clearing the dishes from their table.

So there you have it. Fight the good fight.

TL; DR: Stay hot, don't talk shit and breathe, bitches.

An Incomplete Rendering of Conversations in Utopia

My mistake Ms. According to our database, you are premenstrual. Help yourself to anything in the store, with our compliments.

I'm sorry to bother you, but the city has decided to disable this streetlight that's right across from your bedroom window. It's not at all ridiculous that you haven't just put up a darker curtain.

 The medical community would like to extend its deepest apologies for taking so long to come up with this one-dose cure for urinary tract infections. You never have to drink cranberry juice or get up to pee after sex right away ever again. We'd like to offer you a refund for the countless appointments where we suggested those strategies might actually do anything useful. We were totally bullshitting you.

Chewing ice is great for your teeth. Definitely do that as much as possible.

The rest of the Ministry and myself have decided you are eligible for a Time-Turner.

Girlfriend! Isn't it cool how now when you shave one leg, the other one is shaved automatically?

I've pushed my plate, covered with my napkin, to the side of the table.  Also, my silverware is under the napkin. Also, I am planning on finishing all the water in this glass.

There's nothing you can't text me.

Me and the rest of the men on this bus would just like to let you know that we're going to ride the whole ten minutes downtown without interrupting you or interacting with you in any way whatsoever, starting now.

This is the funniest and deepest horror novel ever written. You'll have to come and visit me and Tabitha sometime.

I've communicated with all the other yoga teachers and we've agreed to never use the word 'yummy' ever again.

We've decided you can wear whatever you want to work.

Wake up honey! You were just having a nightmare about student loans. Those were universally forgiven years ago, remember? Shhhh, I'll hold you while your in-house sauna heats up.

I love how you called it "Slouching in Brooklyn." and it does brilliantly and heartbreakingly surpass my own writing about New York City while still honoring me as an influence.

Tell me more about your horoscope.

I've installed this camera in your mirror for when your hair looks really incredible right before bed.

You look so much prettier when you've spent exactly as much time as you need applying make-up and selecting your clothes in order to express outwardly the beauty and art of your continual and noble work on your innermost self.

In fact, just chew ice instead of flossing.

The Struggle Is Real

I am drinking a tea that promises to cleanse my liver and kidneys. I can only wish it godspeed.

I took the dogs for a walk this morning (ok, this afternoon) and thought of a dozen beautiful, funny things I can write about better than anyone else can write about them. And yet all weekend I've been tongue-tied to myself, shuffling thoughts like the laziest tarot dealer, dreading the labor of transcription. Nothing I've written down in the last week seems to have any life.

I applied to a residency this week so I can write the horror novel that came to me fully-formed in a dream two years ago. When I submitted my 250 word essay I felt like a shoe-in. Today I feel like I have nothing to show for myself but the sheer force of my wishful thinking.

My imagination is my greatest tool and can be my greatest undoing: tasks shine before me in my mind's eye, completed down to the last exhale and tiniest detail, practically glowing with already being done. What hope do I have against these visions untainted by reality. The dishes unwashed, the unexpected visitor, the brutal and inescapable demands of distraction.

While I walked the dogs I tried to have a conversation with the part of me that is convinced I simply do not have what it takes. This part of me is so strong, so sure, so blindly attached to protecting me from the sting of failure and the chaos of effort that it prefers to shut me down completely. And many times, it is easier by far to let this part lead the way. How much easier it seems to sleep until noon, get lost on the internet, watch television for hours past the point of entertainment, to watch the sun rise through exhausted eyes. This part does not count the ways in which I do not fail. This part does not count practice, this part does not understand rough drafts, forgiveness, mistakes, compassion.

I tried speaking out loud, wrangling the dogs through my neighborhood. "Don't be such a stereotype," I told Kava, who wanted to pee on a fire hydrant. Rain was barely falling, hanging in the air like mist, glazing my hair. To this part of myself I said, "I know why you're scared. But I can't let you be in charge. I know how to help you, comfort you. Let me. You don't realize that you're strangling me. Please stop."  I took a deep breath in and out. I felt the shift inside me, the quieting.

I am trying so hard to feel ready for this. I think I need to accept that it may not be in the cards for me to feel equal to the task before I begin. My practice lies in doing it anyway.

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

-Mary Oliver

Bussing Tables

One of my hobbies is defending choices I've made that no one has bothered to actually criticize. 

One of the choices I find myself feeling defensive about is what I do for work: I bus tables at a restaurant and brewery in Asheville, North Carolina. No one is trying to make me feel bad about it, but sometimes I do. Mostly it consists of trying and failing to avoid touching food that has been chewed on, and sometimes, mid-scraping mutilated nachos into the bin, I wonder just what the hell I'm doing with my very expensive education. It's not the kind of job I imagine my parents bragging about. It's not the stuff of which alumnae bulletin dreams are made. It's dirty and hard and underpaid almost all of the time.

But I love it. Even and especially when I end the night saturated in nacho cheese, my own sweat, and other people's beer. 

 I love rolling silverware, still warm from the dishwasher, the subtle flick of the wrist, the casual speed. I love seeing a dirty table and knowing that in less than a minute it will be clean and ready to use again. I love the challenge of carrying 17 (my pr) glasses in one arm and still being able to wipe with the other. I love the brute strength I use to carry buckets of ice, move tables, cart loads of dirty plates and bowls, haul sacks of used linen up the stairs. I love darting in between customers, weaving and dodging around pulled out chairs, free-range toddlers, drunk bros, and servers balancing dishes of food that I will soon scrape, half-eaten, into our compost bin.

This kind of work makes me feel strong and capable, dexterous and graceful in a way that I could not be accused of in other aspects of my life. 

I love the spanish version of  "My Heart Will Go On" my favorite dishwasher plays.

I love observing people who are out to eat, on first dates, bachelorette parties, family vacation, birthdays, retirements, anniversaries. I love listening to their conversations, witnessing their weird eating habits, counting how many napkins they let fall on the floor. I love making a table of patrons laugh when I'm wiping down their table or taking away their plates or bringing them an extra ketchup. I love explaining my tattoo to them. I love being part of the scene of their experience. Oh vanity: "Remember that lovely girl who bussed our table when we visited Asheville? She's so charming and smart and quick with a towel and she totally made me feel better about spilling beer all over the floor and myself".

My work suits my brain chemistry so well: exhausting physical activity and repetitive, short tasks that require brief spurts of intense focus and concentration is my mental health sweet spot.  And bussing tables well requires the kind of mindfulness I'm trying to practice. A deep breath is your only true weapon in the battle against bros, and when your present moment includes balancing ten plates heaped with used chewing gum and collapsing sandwiches, it's pretty helpful to stay in it.

I love being paid mostly in cash. I love swapping dirty jokes with the kitchen, I love the access to unlimited amounts of ice to chew on, I love being surrounded by smart, hilarious female servers who won't take shit, I love that we all call each other "girl" without irony. I love witnessing the weather change out the big patio windows, twilight falling over my town in a different way with every season, the routine of it all and the novelties.

In my particular social milieu, it seems that it's only acceptable to work a service or blue-collar job if there are ambitious caveats attached. One must also be a writer, a scholar, an actress, what have you. And while I do a lot of work that has nothing to do with the remains of the burger of the day, I'm not interested in negating one kind of work in order to defend another, more palatable one.  I want to stop saying, "I just bus tables."

I bus tables. It's challenging and rewarding and necessary work, and it's perfect for me right now. 

Let Freedom Ring

I'm humbled (and astonished, frankly) by the responses I've received to my worst cover letter ever. Obviously, my frustrations with that particular albatross of modern life are not mine alone. Of course, summing oneself up is a necessary evil: on a date, on an interview, meeting potential roommates, social occasions small and large. People persist in asking where you went to college, what you do for money, where you grew up. If you're anything like me, these questions make you squirm, make you feel small, make you feel hopelessly inadequate to the task of telling it like it is with courage and detail and conviction. Because it's exhausting, difficult work. The teeth-grinding truth of it is that we'd all like to simply be seen. We'd all like to skip the small talk.

How many times I've stared at the hateful blank screen pulled up next to my resume and groaned at the burdensome, insanity-producing task of reducing my life and my experiences to sanitized, acceptable language. How often I've hated the final product of these attempts, no matter how polished and good-on-paper, and wished I could say "I'm writing this in two-day underwear and unwashed hair. I have 96 cents in my bank account and cavities I can't afford to fill. Please want me. Please pay me. Please see me. Please don't make me explain."

And yet. Here we are. We must do these things to survive.

But I'm never going to write another boring cover letter ever again. It's a waste of my time, my talent, my energy. I'm not going to do it anymore. If I must sell myself (and oh I must) I'm going to do it in a way that honors my style, my verve, my guts and blood and beating heart and dirty laundry, my unique way of seeing the world and my place in it. I don't want to be employed by anyone who would turn away from the sheer honesty I'll place before them.

So it is my hope that, in addition to being a place where I can write about Buffy the Vampire Slayer and yoga and the quest for the perfect eyeliner, this blog can be a place where I can help others take the leap that I took yesterday. I took that beautiful awful cover letter and I hacked and I reduced and I polished and I sent it off for better or for worse.

And my heart goes out to those like me, those who look at the lump sum of their experiences and their hard-fought, won-with-tears-and-sweat history and despair at the idea of expressing it all in 500 words to a faceless entity, those who get palpitations and clammy hands at the thought of reducing themselves to cliches in the name of making a buck, amongst a sea, a flood, a fucking tidal wave of other poor slobs all trying to do the same. My heart goes out to those reading those cover letters and those personal essays and those blurbs (and I have been one of those) whose eyes are blurred by the awful tedium of sentence after sentence of boilerplate, boring, hackneyed pap that's been wrung dry of anything resembling a coherent message. Fearful language, sloppy language, safe language.

 Because those readers are longing for someone who can tell the truth about themselves with clarity, with spunk, with some spark of life, someone who sends a tingle down the spine, makes them sit up, punch the air, scream "Yes! Finally! Here she is!"  Because those readers will fight for people like that. They'll open up that resume and they'll take on that history and they'll make damn sure it's seen.

So please, if you have a cover letter you hate for a job you'd love to have, send it my way. We'll get those imperfect, rambling, glittering, desperate drafts a place in the sun, a moment in time to just be.

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses of words yearning to breathe free. I'll see you. And then we'll go to work. And then together, we'll make our mealy-mouthed bullshit into something that shines like a goddamn crazy diamond.