Lost in Transition

When I was offered my first well-paid job outside childcare after a year and a half of being broke as a live-in au pair, my first response was: Oh my god – I'll be able to afford my own apartment. I can walk around naked whenever I want to. And drink. And play loud music. I can be drunk, naked, and dancing whenever I want to! Huzzah!

That makes my post-childcare life sound like one big naked party, and it isn't – after all, I still have to work at my new job to get paid. But there's nothing like live-in childcare to make you truly appreciate being in your mid-twenties – even if it's only at the weekends. And occasionally on Tuesdays.

Being an au pair taught me some of the best – and worst – things, about children and families, about the relationships between mothers and nannies, about education and child development, and about myself. The biggest and most important thing I learned is that I will never take another live-in childcare job again in my life. I may even move out of my house when I have my own children. Well, that might be an exaggeration, maybe, but my 18 months as an au pair for three different families put my feelings about starting my own family into perspective.

I used to be one of those girls who would melt at the sight of babies, cooing and fussing over the small children I saw on the bus or in the supermarket. I have one other friend who is like this, and she once said her uterus would ache at the sight of a baby – that's what I felt once, too. The uterine ache of longing for babies.

Then I started getting paid to look after children.

As much as I love children, I never planned to go into childcare after college – it was close to last on my list of post-graduate jobs I would be willing to take – but after moving back to the UK from the States and discovering that care jobs were the only ones available in abundance, my choices were narrowed down to one question: old people or children?

I chose childcare because I thought I'd be good at it – or at least, better than I knew I'd be in eldercare. I'm ashamed to admit that old people who need care – especially personal care – gross me out and frankly scare me. I met plently of eldercare workers who said the same of children, so I guess they're in the right job, and that's what I was afraid of the most. I didn't want to be in a job looking after old people when I knew I'd be the wrong person for the job. They didn't deserve to have me looking after them.

I quickly learned that I wasn't exactly the right person for childcare, either.

My first 'job' as an au pair was in Wales, living with a close family friend, someone I've known since I was nine years and have always considered a big sister to me. When I moved back to the UK, I needed a place to live, and Lucie needed some help with the kids and the house. We were eager to reconnect and grateful that we were able to help each other out; we both felt like we were each getting the better end of the deal, me room and board plus as much pocket money as she could afford to pay me, her a clean(er) house and childcare that allowed her to establish and develop her new business as a grower of fresh produce and herbs as well as herbal bodycare products.

Another upside? Buying birthday / Christmas / baby shower gifts are a snap!

Looking after her two children didn't feel much like a job, but it was definitely hard work. Thankfully, their mother and I, despite seven years without seeing each other and rarely writing, seemed to have near-identical childcare philosophies. Food and nutrition, playtime, schooling, discipline: whatever was happening, we gave the children consistent messages, which I didn't know at the time was a rare and precious thing. When the children were with their fathers, or away at sleepovers, we would get all the mums together and go out dancing, or stay in and cook delicious meals that were uninterrupted by children, and these women became my friends, my support system. Having to move back to the UK, away from my mom and my college friends, could get lonely sometimes, but they were always there for me. I felt completely at home with them, and loved all their children too. We were one big happy [crazy] family.

Lucie and me on a to-scale bouncy Stonehenge. The kids complained about it being too wet. We had a blast.

My next two jobs were far from Wales, with families I didn't know, and I'm not sure whether I truly had less personal space during my time with these families or if I was simply more aware of the fact my space was being invaded by strangers instead of people I considered my family. I was still lonely, more so than when I'd first moved, but I was never alone. Close by there was always the noise, and the needs, of others.

To cut a long story short – though I've got plenty of stories from those families that I'm sure I'll share in other blog posts – my third au pair job ended abruptly in May just as I was being approached by someone from the Mozilla Foundation to work on their Open Badges team, and I was suddenly back in Wales, looking at potential apartments online, and getting set up with my new position at Mozilla. Within two months, I had a new laptop, I'd been flown back to Maine for the team retreat, and my bank account was in shock, having reached a figure it hadn't seen since I was in high school.

This summer has been one of transition. I try to use “transition” instead of “limbo” to describe my life, because being in limbo feels static, and out of my control. Transition means change, and I like change. It's been a long summer, with many steps forward and almost as many steps back – but I saw somewhere that optimism is seeing one step forward and one step back as a cha-cha. I like that.

On Monday, I'm supposed to be moving into my new apartment – which, after weeks of delays and staying with friends and in hotels, has been a long time coming. I will have my grown-up job, my all-to-myself apartment, and my friends will be living nearby. Bring out the wine and turn up the music, for I will no longer be in transition, no longer in limbo.

I will be on my own, but I won't be lonely. I'll be dancing.

Waitressing Chronicles, Part I:

Hello. My name is Kay, and I am a waitress.

I’ve already decided this is going to be a line I relay in front of a meeting group circle of pitied human beings, all trembling from the harm inflicted to them by the real world; the cruel, scary place outside where nobody cares about what you’ve done, who you think you are or who you think you can be.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t look down on people who are servers, or who are employed in other service duties, for that matter.  It’s just that I am an embittered college grad who is back at square one (or minus ten or twenty, if you include the accumulated debt obtained from those four years—the best years of my life, man!), and am thankful enough to have even found a job as a server in the first place. College didn't prepare me for post-college, and I was jettisoned off into the real world after graduating, landing with a thud on the cold, hard, unforgiving ground. I am seriously fortunate, though. There are a lot of people my age who are unemployed, and while being a waitress can be challenging and unpleasant at times, tips rock and can be awesome, and my job is never boring or dull.

You see, waitressing was always something I thought I could never do. I romanticized it for whatever reason, but it was always something I never fathomed was in my cards.  I’m horrible with strangers—I’m that person that avoids the grocery store until it is an hour before closing, because I can’t stand unknown people. I don’t like interacting with anyone, or feeling their eyes, or seeing that they are picking up dry room-temperature goods after they already gathered their frozen and refrigerated dairy items, and their ice cream is melting, and oh my god that milk is probably warm by now... and, you get the hint. So, waitressing just seemed like a bad idea.

Now that I am a magical food-bringer and drink-filler, I can honestly say nothing could have prepared me for the joys, pains, and ‘what-the-fucks’ of being a server. I’ve gotten to know my regulars, hold disdain for teenagers, crowds of young children, and feel exceptionally exasperated with really confused old people. Every shift is new and never boring. I guess in that sense I am really lucky.

The first time I realized what I might be in for, was during my first week or two of training to be Master Waitress. It’s when I was still freaked out, but ever-so-slightly less freaked out that I was beginning to notice something that was likely there the whole time... creepy old men. Everyone knows the kind. They seem unassuming, with their plaid and their boots. They like gravy on their fries and ask for every refill they can get out of that $2.50 Pepsi they are drinking, repeatedly having to lick the perimeter of their mustache/beard mouth of the liquid and gravy combo inevitably created by the unity of the two. These guys are the outlaws of the American small-town home-style restaurant. They don’t care if you were still cozy and warm in your mother’s uterus while they were watching their son rock their grandchild. You have ovaries (or at least you look like you do, anyway), and you are serving them food. As long as you’ve hit puberty you are fair game to be hit on. Their five to fifteen percent tip DEMANDS that you allow them to hit on you, because that is almost like a surcharge for the harassment they will make you endure.

It all began with the innocent enough “Hey there sweetheart,” “Hi blondie,” and “Hey there good-looking.” Mind you, I don’t and never have gone to work dressing to impress. In fact, I figure the best waitress in the world is very unassuming in appearance; they try to blend into the background, like a ghost of sorts, magically appearing and disappearing in ways that make you think, “I’m not sure how my food just got here, but that was fast! What a great day!” I actually wear all black, keep my hair back, and purposefully make myself look plain but pleasant. This doesn’t stop the creepers, though. I’ve experienced a wide range of discomforts - greetings with ever-so-slight sexual undertones, repeated and relentless requests for hugs, hardcore leering, attempts to touch my hand when I’m putting plates of food or placing drinks on the table... the list could go on.

These incidents made me feel very nervous when I started working at my job. To this day certain moments are fresh in my memory, branded in my brain as if I were another bovine on the market. Thankfully I have a strong-willed, tough, take-no-crap boss who would rush to my assistance if there were ever a need. My own strength of will in regard to defending myself has gotten much better over time, too. Still, the prevalence of the mindset where you just have to accept the existence of these creepy old men baffles and unnerves me. Every single day I wish I could go to their place of work and make them as uncomfortable as they make me sometimes. I know this would never work, though - they would probably love it.

While working in the service industry, there will always be a big part of me that wishes I could blend in like I do in at a 24-hour grocery store at 1:30am, but even then I am able to shroud myself from stranger’s eyes with hats, glasses, scarves, and other implements, something I could never do unless I worked in a very cold restaurant in Iceland. Until then, I suppose all I can do is practice my own Terror-Inducing Leer Defense Glare, doling it out as pleasantly and with as much ease as I would a glass of ice water. I think I get better each time.

Confessions of a Crushaholic

Hi, my name is Lindsay. ("Hiiii Lindsay.") And I am a Candy Crush addict.

I still have yet to announce on Facebook that I am hiding this deep, dark secret. Nor have I agreed to link my Facebook page to the game itself, to earn more lives or bonuses, etc. I am too embarrassed for all of that. No, I'll just admit it to all our new, lovely followers, on our new, lovely blog.

I am, however, proud of the fact that I have not spent a dime on this app yet. I have waited the allotted days in between levels and time in between lives. I've spent way more time than I'll admit, to beat it the old fashioned way, just like our great nation... free. I swear sometimes the gnomes in my phone running the game (they live in all phones, right?) are out to get me to open my wallet, though. Just as I have a few jellies left to clear, I lose. But on the other hand, I think they also feel bad for me when I've wasted 30 lives trying to beat level 68. They throw me a bone, and I'm onto obsessing about the next level.

My addiction can be blamed on good old fashioned peer pressure. I was getting Candy Crush requests left and right on Facebook. I always laughed them off, like I had better things to do with my time. What losers, am I right? Then one day came where I thought, "What is all the fuss about?" Big mistake. I am now addicted. When I fessed up to my husband what I had done, he said, "That's like saying, 'I just want to try crack to see what the fuss is about.'" Touche.

It's like this picture was made for my blog entry.

So here I am, at level 95, patiently waiting another hour or so (when I'll unlock a new quest without paying for it) to play again. But hey, the first step in the process is acceptance right? Well, I accept it.

I Have a Vision for Dinner. And It's Bigger Than My Wallet.

Being a dog walker brings a whole new level of understanding to the term "Feast or Famine." When the money is good, it's really good. When the money is bad, you panic and scramble to make rent. Unfortunately, you never know too far in advance which way it's going to be. Clients come and go for a multitude of reasons. Oftentimes, there's way too much work or not nearly enough. If you're good at what you do, you can hustle to make ends meet. But you're never really in a position to wear a cashmere catsuit while eating beluga caviar from your finest platinum china - or whatever it is that rich people do - because even if you feel like you're rolling in Benjamins, you could be pawning it all next week when your clients choose to go long-term "summering" in "The Hamptons." Bottom line: Being a dog walker requires a certain amount of frugality. I am not very frugal.

Three more pennies and I can buy a six pack!

My biggest weakness is food. Hands down. Some people have a soft spot for vintage clothing, designer shoes, exotic vacations, cats... I am constantly eating my paychecks. Come to think of it - equal opportunity spender that I am - I'm drinking them, too. It doesn't help that my epicuriosity tends to exceed my pay bracket.

Sometimes I find myself wandering through ritzy shops and specialty markets like a real-life Orphan Annie, smelling all of the delicious smells, reading the placards like I can actually afford what's beneath them, and making eyes with the teenagers behind the counter like a starving mongrel dog. Please offer me a piece of that $75 per pound limited bleu cheese from the Northwest corner of Mordor. Please. 

And sometimes they do. 

Probably because I'm making them uncomfortable.

Anyway, here's what I'm getting at: Expensive tastes combined with fluctuating income occasionally leads to poor decision-making, especially when I'm given the opportunity to show off. Now, don't get me wrong. On most days, I'm humble. I'll even go so far as to say that humbleness is a cornerstone of my personality. But on some days, a little part of me wants to be impressive... likes it, even. I take pride in my cooking. It's nothing gourmet, but more often than not, it is tasty. When I'm by myself, I'll spend 20 minutes torturing over the price of pork chops in the subpar local supermarket before ultimately settling for beef heart, because organ meat is cheaper by the pound. But on days when I'm cooking for two, I magically possess this strange conviction that I can afford to eat whatever the hell I want, that I can afford to serve whatever the hell I want.

If there were Olympics for the pure power of self-justifcation, I'd win.

And with this very reasonable thought process in place, I think, "I, too, can shop at Whole Foods."

Whole Foods - while definitely a mainstream supermarket - is a veritable mecca for anything in the universe that you could possibly want to eat as an upper middle class American. They have a section for everything. Hell, their sections have sections. There's a multicultural food court, a beer-tasting room, machines for making your own peanut butter, loose eggs from under the butt of every bird imaginable, and all the natural, grass-fed, organically-raised meat, fish, and cheese your body has room for. And most of the produce is local. And there is a lot  of produce. This overflowing consumer cornucopia of edible delight, however, comes at a price. Truth is, Whole Foods would be better rebranded as Whole Paycheck.

Now, as a 27-year-old woman living in New York City and working full time as a dog walker, I think it goes without saying that, while I do statistically have more than most of the world's population, I definitely do not qualify as an upper middle class American. So, when I push through the pristinely-polished revolving doors of the hermetically-sealed Columbus Circle Mall - which is redolent with wealth and privilege - and cautiously board the escalator that takes me down, down, down to the crisp air conditioning of Whole Foods Heaven, I become acutely aware of my crusty, beat-up Keds and my threadbare Forever 21 yoga pants (which can barely hang onto their seams, but still somehow manage to pick up every stray Manhattanite dog hair within a 10-foot radius of my body).

"You do not belong here," my mind warns me. "Your wallet does not belong here."

But my eyes brighten with every step. My heart sings. 

"Fresh figs are on sale for $3.99," it coos lovingly.

It is Christmas, and I am young again.

There are two things about this magical journey worth pointing out. For one, to most people, a trip to Whole Foods on a Wednesday evening contains all the untapped joy of a weekend trip to the DMV. For them, there is nothing exciting about trekking to their regular, overcrowded, subterranean, urban supermarket after a long day at the office. You can see it in their harried faces and defensive body language, the way they deftly maneuver those strange little shopping carts around the market's many standalone islands, like drone bees with a tedious - but necessary - task at hand. Whole Foods contains no magic. It contains food. There's no mistaking it: This is a chore. 

I, on the other hand, am like a tourist from the deep South, seeing Times Square for the first time. And fully understanding how annoying both Times Square and first-time tourists are, I'm aware that just because my heart bubbles over with joy for the two-inch-thick grass-fed New Zealand lamb chops doesn't mean that anyone else gives a shit. In fact, all they're aware of is that I'm walking too goddamned slow. I'm a wrench in a well-oiled machine. But that's okay. Because... well, because meat. Everybody surely understands the Logic of Meat. Even vegetarians.

"One of those, please. No, don't wrap it. I need a snack while I shop."

The second thing worth pointing out is that I'm only planning on buying lamb at Whole Foods. Nothing else. And at $8.99 per pound - though significantly more expensive than my $1.50 per pound beef heart - it's only a mini investment, and well worth the look of adoring admiration I'd surely receive upon transferring it from a crackling skillet - glistening with melted butter and fresh herbs - into the waiting mouth of a hungry man. 

So, there I am, standing at the meat counter, watching the butcher wrap those sacred lamb chops, and listening raptly as he tells me to rub them down with citrus before laying them gently into a lightly-oiled pan to sear for two-to-three minutes per side, which would bring them to that perfect melt-in-my-mouth medium rare I'm so ardently seeking... I swear, I could have made love to him right there inside the glass case, stretched languorously atop the sticky pork loins and marinated chicken breasts. He was speaking the language of love. Or at least he was speaking my language of love.

"Citrus," I think, gingerly taking the brown paper package from the butcher's hands and tucking it into my strange little cart. "I need citrus." But then a small voice - you know, that small, persuasive, insidious whisper behind all terrible choices - lightly suggests, "You know you need more than just lamb chops and citrus to cook a praise-worthy meal, right? Are normal tomatoes as good as locally-grown organic tomatoes? Why don't you just, I don't know, buy all of your ingredients here? You don't need that many things. How much could it possibly cost?"

Fifteen minutes later, as the resolutely cheerful cashier is ringing up my beautiful items, I look down at my grocery list and wince: Lamb chops, garlic, parsley, rosemary, cauliflower, tomatoes, cucumbers, red onion, green peppers, fresh figs, Kalamata olives, Greek feta cheese, and baguette. More than I planned for when I get right down to it, especially considering the fact that the dinner itself was just as spontaneous as my hideous splurge. Kind of a lot of things for one two-person meal, really.

"I'll be impressive for sure," I think, brushing away the knowledge that he finds me plenty impressive already. Just as I'm starting to feel better about my embarrassing lack of financial management skills, the cashier speaks:

"That'll be fifty-seven dollars and forty-nine cents."

Fuck.

Utilizing every ounce of willpower to control my fight-or-flight response, which would be to blurt out, "I'll just take the lamb chops, thank you," before running, screaming, from the supermarket, I force a polite smile and meekly hand over my debit card. Minutes later, I'm back outside, trundling along the South end of Central Park with a heavy brown paper bag clutched anxiously to my chest.

I'm pleased to report that, once the shock wore off, I succeeded in creating a truly delicious meal. I rinsed the lamb chops and marinated them in olive oil and balsamic vinegar with fresh garlic, parsley, and rosemary before pan searing them in butter, just as the butcher instructed; roasted the cauliflower until it was golden brown; and combined the chopped tomatoes, cucumbers, green peppers, red onion, and feta into a traditional Greek salad, all enjoyed with a yummy bottle of Pinot Noir, courtesy of my charming and thoughtful dinner companion.

I was feeling pretty good about myself. Almost good enough to forget the horror of the total cost... which is probably why I found myself back at Whole Foods two weeks later, poring over the sunchoke roots and chayotes. I needed one vegetable. I bought both. The cashier had no clue what they were. Neither did I.

Hint: It's not a pear! (Well, then what the hell is it?)

A day in the life.

Someday I'll learn.

Maybe.