|Five Good Things About My Shitty, Commission-Based, Driving-Intensive, Badly-Paid Catering Job.
||[May. 21st, 2009|02:22 pm]
jen does not rhyme with penis
|||||classical muzak + espressomusik||]|
1. En route to the kitchens at 5:30 in the morning, the low-flying cargo planes, the electrical plants, and the (operational! but still appropriately run-down) drive-in movie theater look almost perfectly like the Americana fairy tale I've been looking for. Hollywood spends millions trying to reproduce this light; who knew the armpit of the Bay could be so gorgeous?
2. It's decent food and I feel okay about selling it.
3. The place is owned by a married couple. Not a corporation, no double-speak, little bullshit. The husband is creepy (although not molester-creepy -- he kind of looks like Aldo Kelrast, but the wife is okay.
4. After six hours of driving around, washing dishes, interacting with horrible things such as ranch dressing and hard-boiled eggs, and generally feeling sweaty and scuzzy, there is no better feeling than putting on a short skirt and some heels, even if I'm not going anywhere special. Especially if I'm not going anywhere special.
5. Every minute, I'm more compelled to get my shit together. Every time I enter an office building to wheedle seven dollars out of someone whose job I'm more than qualified to have, I count the days til Nationals, til the tour, til the next movie and I draw maps out of this muck. This experience is probably supposed to humble me -- fuck humility. It's making me calculating, it's making me cocky, it's making me bust out all that willpower I brag about so often. At this point, I can choose between working this job like I deserve it, and working it like a fuckin' artist.
I now wholeheartedly believe that the universe will give me what I need, even if it's not necessarily what I want. I worked so hard to be on a slam team, and I'm fucking honored to be coaching one. I think it will be better for me, this year. My inarticulate, obfuscating ass is sometimes offput by a new friend who cheerfully says what she means and asks occasionally-uncomfortable questions and considers relationships in a way that I have often villified in this journal (and I left this public for you, creeperface!), and I've learned and grown an awful lot from hanging out with her (more'n I've told you, I think). I said I'd never move back to Santa Cruz, and I think it and the edges of its cliffs have become my place of power.
It's true that I am as easy to hate as 12-year Scotch. I believe the boy who tells me I'm a taste worth acquiring, because he didn't say it while staring at my tits. I could never tell you that I am extrordinary (nobody loves a fuckin' diva) but these days, I cannot afford not to believe that I am.