My recent neglect of this blog has been pretty shameful, I'll admit.
But, in all honesty, nothing much has been going on here, so there wasn't a whole lot to report, apart from my newly rediscovered love of formulaic dance films (Step Up 3, you gorgeous thing, I am looking at you) and my continued unemployment, so there you have it.
I've sent out resumé after resumé after resumé over the past few weeks with very little response, although I do have one "recruitment seminar" on the retail end of an incredibly successful company tomorrow afternoon, so fingers crossed that I don't get lost in the shuffle of potential employees. I'm sending out about seven more resumés and cover letters tonight for administrative positions, and hoping that this dry spell of mine (in many aspects of my life, not just professionally) is winding down, because--here's an unsurprising revelation--housewifery is not really my bag. That's why I was never really showed much interest in the "wife" part of it. But lately my life has involved emptying the dishwasher, doing laundry, baking bread (which, actually, I haven't done in a week or so, so I'll make that a weekend project), and watching a lot of trashy reality television--and to that end, why has no one told me about Dance Moms before now? It's like Toddlers and Tiaras except infinitely more horrifying, and it absolutely exemplifies everything I hate about whitewashed upper-middle-class suburbia--so obviously I can't stop watching.
A recent upper respiratory virus managed to coincide with a bout of fairly severe depression, which, if I'm being fair, is probably caused at least in part by this feeling of not having anything to do during the day, so at least depression hasn't hampered my fast and furious distribution of resumés. If anything, it has caused me to send out more applications, since the resulting insomnia gives me more time to do so. Insomnia, by the way? Also not my bag. So I've got my fingers crossed that something will turn up, even if it's part-time and for minimum wage, because I'm pretty much over this constant feeling of ennui.
It occurs to me now that if I had both a) more money, and b) more patience, I could take up playing video games. The patience part has historically been my problem, though, especially when there are zombies, constrictive time limits, or jumping puzzles involved.
(The Oxford commas just keep on coming)
I'm going to be honest, I really just want to add to my "dreams" tag, so I'll mention that the other night I made the mistake of drinking alcohol and then taking cold medicine, which resulted in a pretty spectacular and unsettling drug-dream in which Draco Malfoy and I were told we were staying in a nice hotel somewhere in the continental United States with a bunch of other students (in this dream I was still a student, but I'm not sure of what, or from where), but soon realized that we had instead been tricked into participating in some sort of experiment where we were kept in a full-scale replica of Rome's Ancient City, given cannons and gunpowder, and watched to see how quickly the group could create its own society from nothing and then how quickly that society would unmake itself. So, yeah. That happened.
But returning to the subject of things that are Actually Happening in my Real Life, and on a more positive note, the newest man in my life is a potted rhododendron named Irving, who, despite my complete lack of a nurturing instinct, seems to be thriving in his little spot on my bedroom windowsill, right beside the Waldorf and Statler beanies I bought at Disney World forever ago. I don't know how he does it, but he seems to have figured out a way to not only reach toward the sunlight, but even grow, even though I continually forget to water him. So there's one thing I'm doing well right now--Irving. Irving is all right.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Things to never say to a musician; or, BS has had enough
After another weekend at home (prescriptions to refill, cats' medical appointments to attend, &c., &c.), and another round of, "You are 25 and still don't have a real job, what are you doing with your wasted life?", I think it's about time for a nice little fireside chat.
I'm sure, of course, that the few people reading this who know me in Real Life (I am thinking first and foremost of my parents, who are unwavering in their support, for which I am intensely grateful) are, for the most part, those who are, if not flag-waving fans of my decision to pursue an unconventional career path--that is, music, the performance of--at least tolerant and supportive of said choice. The thing is, it is a choice. It is, in fact, my choice, and as a card-carrying, 100% certified rational adult capable of weighing the multiple possible outcomes of a given situation and making a decision based on the various pros and cons of each possibility. Keeping that in mind, I would like to remind those of you who have a professional musician/artist/writer/haver-of-creative-thoughts-and-not-necessarily-steady-income in your life, of a few simple things.
First of all, it is never, under any circumstances, appropriate to make comments to someone who is embarking on a less-than-conventional career path what their "real job" is. It is also not okay to ask someone who has recently received a graduate degree in an artistic field something along the lines of, "If your degree is in art/music/creative writing/whatever, why aren't you looking for a job in art/music/creative writing/whatever instead of temping as a receptionist?" Statements and questions implying that a musician or artist's career is somehow invalid, and that the pursuer of said career is either immature or naive for choosing to perform or create rather than, for example, manufacturing No. 2 pencils or packing shipping crates, is widely regarded to be incredibly rude.
I don't presume to be an expert on other people's lives, either personal or professional, but I am most definitely an authority on the subject of my own, which is why I take offense when, say, a family member laments that I wasted money going to graduate school, and that I don't have a "real education." Because here's the thing--although it is true that my B.A. and M.M. are in music performance, which is not a field of study out of one emerges ready to take a six-figure job, and attain the American Dream of a house, a mortgage, and a white picket fence, I did, during that time, attend classes covering subjects other than music, thus expanding my range of knowledge. Furthermore, while studying I was also working to help pay for my education, and the experience I gained in those positions, particularly in the field of administrative and clerical work, has provided me with a skill-set which will help me pay rent and bills while I pursue my actual goal of making a living doing what I love.
And here's the thing--it's not as if my ambition is to become the next Lady GaGa or whoever, or to make a zillion dollars and retire to my own private island. The fact is that there are plenty of other people out there, although you may not have heard of them, who are supporting themselves through classical music performance. I don't necessarily want to be rich or well-known or glamorous; what I really want is to not spend the rest of my life working fifty to sixty hours a week, fifty weeks a year, at minimum wage, and hating myself because I've chosen financial security over what I truly believe to be my vocation.
And if, in the service of that ambition, I end up needing to pull a few odd jobs to pay the rent, well, I'm not too proud to do that, either. The thing is, although it's not what I see myself doing for the rest of my life, I really do like administrative assisting, I like the smell of office supplies and the feel of paper, and good God, do I like to alphabetize things (everyone has a hobby). I don't mind temping during the week while I'm auditioning on the weekends, and I actually sort of enjoyed waiting tables and working as a barista. Performing may be intellectually and spiritually fulfilling, and without that I would most definitely shrivel and die--but there is something immensely satisfying about spending eight hours at work before leaving smelling of sweat and barbecue sauce or coffee, skin greasy from perspiration but at least knowing that you did something that day.
So, yes, until I either reach the point at which endless auditions begin to pay off with actual jobs on a semi-regular basis, or performing no longer makes me happy, I am going to continue to pursue the things which give meaning to my life, and do whatever I need to in order to make that possible.
I'm sure, of course, that the few people reading this who know me in Real Life (I am thinking first and foremost of my parents, who are unwavering in their support, for which I am intensely grateful) are, for the most part, those who are, if not flag-waving fans of my decision to pursue an unconventional career path--that is, music, the performance of--at least tolerant and supportive of said choice. The thing is, it is a choice. It is, in fact, my choice, and as a card-carrying, 100% certified rational adult capable of weighing the multiple possible outcomes of a given situation and making a decision based on the various pros and cons of each possibility. Keeping that in mind, I would like to remind those of you who have a professional musician/artist/writer/haver-of-creative-thoughts-and-not-necessarily-steady-income in your life, of a few simple things.
First of all, it is never, under any circumstances, appropriate to make comments to someone who is embarking on a less-than-conventional career path what their "real job" is. It is also not okay to ask someone who has recently received a graduate degree in an artistic field something along the lines of, "If your degree is in art/music/creative writing/whatever, why aren't you looking for a job in art/music/creative writing/whatever instead of temping as a receptionist?" Statements and questions implying that a musician or artist's career is somehow invalid, and that the pursuer of said career is either immature or naive for choosing to perform or create rather than, for example, manufacturing No. 2 pencils or packing shipping crates, is widely regarded to be incredibly rude.
I don't presume to be an expert on other people's lives, either personal or professional, but I am most definitely an authority on the subject of my own, which is why I take offense when, say, a family member laments that I wasted money going to graduate school, and that I don't have a "real education." Because here's the thing--although it is true that my B.A. and M.M. are in music performance, which is not a field of study out of one emerges ready to take a six-figure job, and attain the American Dream of a house, a mortgage, and a white picket fence, I did, during that time, attend classes covering subjects other than music, thus expanding my range of knowledge. Furthermore, while studying I was also working to help pay for my education, and the experience I gained in those positions, particularly in the field of administrative and clerical work, has provided me with a skill-set which will help me pay rent and bills while I pursue my actual goal of making a living doing what I love.
And here's the thing--it's not as if my ambition is to become the next Lady GaGa or whoever, or to make a zillion dollars and retire to my own private island. The fact is that there are plenty of other people out there, although you may not have heard of them, who are supporting themselves through classical music performance. I don't necessarily want to be rich or well-known or glamorous; what I really want is to not spend the rest of my life working fifty to sixty hours a week, fifty weeks a year, at minimum wage, and hating myself because I've chosen financial security over what I truly believe to be my vocation.
And if, in the service of that ambition, I end up needing to pull a few odd jobs to pay the rent, well, I'm not too proud to do that, either. The thing is, although it's not what I see myself doing for the rest of my life, I really do like administrative assisting, I like the smell of office supplies and the feel of paper, and good God, do I like to alphabetize things (everyone has a hobby). I don't mind temping during the week while I'm auditioning on the weekends, and I actually sort of enjoyed waiting tables and working as a barista. Performing may be intellectually and spiritually fulfilling, and without that I would most definitely shrivel and die--but there is something immensely satisfying about spending eight hours at work before leaving smelling of sweat and barbecue sauce or coffee, skin greasy from perspiration but at least knowing that you did something that day.
So, yes, until I either reach the point at which endless auditions begin to pay off with actual jobs on a semi-regular basis, or performing no longer makes me happy, I am going to continue to pursue the things which give meaning to my life, and do whatever I need to in order to make that possible.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Tripping hither, tripping thither; or, BS explores
I stayed up past 1 a.m. last night baking my first-ever loaf of bread. And it was . . . my first loaf of bread. As can be seen in the photograph above, she is not the prettiest girl at the dance, but, despite being dense and a little crumbly, this loaf tastes pretty good with a little bit of peanut butter spread over the top. I'm going home this weekend to attend a baby shower, and plan on returning with gluten flour (in addition to the second bookshelf I need desperately), which will, I hope, assist in the rising process, as that proved to be my biggest setback as a baker-of-bread. Oh, and maybe the mix needs a little more water, since the dough felt a little dry when I was kneading it.
The Roommate came home early last night, so we actually had a chance to chat as I was working on my bread. It was at this point that I realized that unemployment is turning me into a housewife. as she took off her shoes, I proudly exclaimed, "I did laundry and a load of dishes! And I'm baking!" I then proceeded to knit a baby blanket as I waited for my bread to rise.
In all fairness, my sudden retreat into extreme domesticity probably has something to do with the fact that I haven't made any actual friends (or acquaintances, or people at whom I nod when we pass on the street) in Chicago. Living with The Roommate is ideal--we operate on similar schedules, since she's a chef and I'm an insomniac, but keep opposing shower schedules, so there's never a race to the restroom in the morning. However, this also means that I spend a lot of time by myself--knitting, watching old episodes of Kitchen Nightmares on YouTube, drinking iced chai while I finish the A Song of Ice and Fire series--and I'm beginning to get tired of myself.
The other day, I finally had my "Oh God, oh God, oh God, what have I done?!" moment, and although the same exact thing happened when I first moved to Seattle, I was completely blindsided when it happened in Chicago. Suddenly, I was unable to stop crying, even when I left the apartment to read the letters of Vincent Van Gogh in the nearby Starbucks--in fairness, Van Gogh probably wasn't the best choice when I was already feeling weepy, since I kept reading sentences that sounded as if I could have written them and beginning to choke up again. So, back to alternating between GRRM, Sherlock Holmes, and Jane Austen.
Also: I broke a shoe at IKEA last weekend. Time to look for a new pair of decent dress flats.
It's sort of ridiculous, actually, how I managed to ruin that pair of shoes. I was neither running nor jumping nor lifting anything heavy. Instead, I was eating a spinach-filled crepe at the third-floor cafe before Mom and I headed over to look at textiles when the strap snapped off. I cut the straps off both shoes, hoping to salvage them, but without the Mary-Jane buckles, the shoes were too big and my feet blistered. So I threw them out.
(Millionaire Matchmaker is currently reminding me why I neither want to live in New York City nor date a millionaire. So there you have it. Thanks, trash television! And, God, this show's so sleazy.)
Since my IKEA shoe mishap, I have been traipsing about the city in the running shoes I bought before running a 5K in 2008, and, while normally I would never wear sneakers in public (Italy and high-maintenance singers, what have you done to me?!), I have to admit that it's much more comfortable than teetering down the sidewalk in heels. A few nights ago I walked over to River North, where I ate deep-dish pizza among the families of tourists seeking the "authentic Chicago experience." And yesterday, I made the trek to Wicker Park, whose legions of hipsters made me feel as if I was back in Seattle. I told two separate Red Cross canvassers that I can barely afford rent this month (mostly a lie), and a pair of Greenpeace canvassers that I spoke no English, only Italian. I do love walking--it's probably my favorite solitary activity, especially once the temperature dips below 80 degrees, and in Chicago the neighborhoods are so close that it's easy to walk from one to the next.
So, that's that. Bring it, Chicago. And, if you've got the time, bring me a job, too, please. I'm ready to give you a chance.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
I'll show you around; or, BS arrives in a new city
So here's a fun little quirk of psychology: since arriving in Chicago, my sense of the Italian language has returned. Thus far, I am unsure whether this has more to do with the predominantly Italian-American population of my neighborhood, or with the fact that the last time I felt so completely foreign in a city was last summer in Florence.
I have been moved into the new apartment for just over thirty hours, and it's strange how completely different to Seattle Chicago has been so far. My neighborhood is small and relatively quiet, about halfway between where the hipsters used to be and where they are going. Walking down the street I see a lot of families and young couples with dogs. I am, at least, pleased to be far from the high-volume hubris of the city's businessmen--I never could stand to hear businessmen talk about themselves and the money that they make, and, at least so far, I have met people my own age. For the most part, I've kept to myself the past two days, and in this way the reticence of the big city suits me: when I feel like interacting with other people, I go to the local coffee shop for an iced chai (the best I have had--ever) or to the organic greengrocer, but for the most part, I am left in peace to read my book.
I did have an interesting interaction with a cab driver last Thursday, however. For whatever reason, I seem to be the person who gets the pit in the slice of cherry pie, the eggshell in the brownie--and the craziest of cab drivers. In Seattle, for example, I once caught a cab outside of the opera house and, leaning over to the open window, asked the driver, "Are you free?" "Thanks to Mister Lincoln, yes," he replied. Well. Yes, please, let's have a discussion about the history of slavery to go with my overpriced twenty-minute drive back to the north side, please. Other drivers have attempted to engage me in conversation as I sat in the back seat, attempting to impress me with their knowledge of the local music scene once they learned I was a musician by trade, once even during a 4 a.m. ride to the airport. But, oh, this one--she wins the award for Craziest Cabbie, because at the conclusion of this taxi ride, I ended up with a religious tract.
The main point of this story, I will say at the outset, is that I should just learn to shut up, because that is when the crazies descend. I got in the cab. She asked where I wanted to go. I told her. She had no idea where it was, so I, with my limited knowledge of the outer neighborhoods of Chicago, attempted to explain it to her. And then I noticed that she was playing an Evangelical sermon on her radio. Oh. God. Here is where BS becomes an idiot:
BS: Um, who is the speaker?
Driver: Oh, that's Pastor Chris! He's an inspiration.
BS: Oh.
Driver: When he preaches, the dumb speak, the blind see, and the lame walk. [She proceeds to detail the miracles performed by Pastor Chris, and proselytizes to me on the subject of speaking in tongues] Are you a Christian, ma'am?
BS: Um. Yes?
Driver: What church do you attend?
BS: Well. At the moment, none. But I'm a member of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America, and attend whenever I can. [this is, true to my name, BS--but there was no way I was admitting to this woman, who was swerving in and out of Chicago traffic, that I don't believe in a Hell]
Driver: Jesus is coming back, you know. Very soon.
BS: Um.
In the end, I was lucky to escape with only the added burden of the thickest religious tract I have ever been given--actually a daily devotional from last year, but, as my driver assured me, "The word of God is eternal." [Disclaimer: I am not actually an immoral, godless heathen, but I also do not appreciate being witnessed to by someone whose job is to convey me from Point A to Point B in the shortest amount of time possible. If that makes me a terrible person, I freely accept that label.]
And, oh, I meant to write a bit about What I Am Reading Right Now. So here's that:
A Feast For Crows! The fact that I am tearing through this book even though I like it so much less than the previous three volumes of the A Song of Ice and Fire series (A Game of Thrones, A Clash of Kings, A Storm of Swords). This is partially due to the fact that this book and the next volume were originally meant to be released as one, but the plot and characters got away from Martin and he decided to separate them geographically. It's a cool idea, but all of my favorite characters were relegated to the fifth volume. Nevertheless, there's a satisfying amount of crazy included in A Feast for Crows by virtue of Martin's decision to allow a character who is very possibly insane to dominate the narrative. I'm purposefully not giving away any plot points because I don't know anymore what is important to the larger narrative and what isn't--so, dear readers (all, what, four of you?), please read this series. Please. I would love to talk about it with you.
But, God, I feel dull tonight, and my thoughts are scattered. More thoughts on the adjustment period later.
I have been moved into the new apartment for just over thirty hours, and it's strange how completely different to Seattle Chicago has been so far. My neighborhood is small and relatively quiet, about halfway between where the hipsters used to be and where they are going. Walking down the street I see a lot of families and young couples with dogs. I am, at least, pleased to be far from the high-volume hubris of the city's businessmen--I never could stand to hear businessmen talk about themselves and the money that they make, and, at least so far, I have met people my own age. For the most part, I've kept to myself the past two days, and in this way the reticence of the big city suits me: when I feel like interacting with other people, I go to the local coffee shop for an iced chai (the best I have had--ever) or to the organic greengrocer, but for the most part, I am left in peace to read my book.
I did have an interesting interaction with a cab driver last Thursday, however. For whatever reason, I seem to be the person who gets the pit in the slice of cherry pie, the eggshell in the brownie--and the craziest of cab drivers. In Seattle, for example, I once caught a cab outside of the opera house and, leaning over to the open window, asked the driver, "Are you free?" "Thanks to Mister Lincoln, yes," he replied. Well. Yes, please, let's have a discussion about the history of slavery to go with my overpriced twenty-minute drive back to the north side, please. Other drivers have attempted to engage me in conversation as I sat in the back seat, attempting to impress me with their knowledge of the local music scene once they learned I was a musician by trade, once even during a 4 a.m. ride to the airport. But, oh, this one--she wins the award for Craziest Cabbie, because at the conclusion of this taxi ride, I ended up with a religious tract.
The main point of this story, I will say at the outset, is that I should just learn to shut up, because that is when the crazies descend. I got in the cab. She asked where I wanted to go. I told her. She had no idea where it was, so I, with my limited knowledge of the outer neighborhoods of Chicago, attempted to explain it to her. And then I noticed that she was playing an Evangelical sermon on her radio. Oh. God. Here is where BS becomes an idiot:
BS: Um, who is the speaker?
Driver: Oh, that's Pastor Chris! He's an inspiration.
BS: Oh.
Driver: When he preaches, the dumb speak, the blind see, and the lame walk. [She proceeds to detail the miracles performed by Pastor Chris, and proselytizes to me on the subject of speaking in tongues] Are you a Christian, ma'am?
BS: Um. Yes?
Driver: What church do you attend?
BS: Well. At the moment, none. But I'm a member of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America, and attend whenever I can. [this is, true to my name, BS--but there was no way I was admitting to this woman, who was swerving in and out of Chicago traffic, that I don't believe in a Hell]
Driver: Jesus is coming back, you know. Very soon.
BS: Um.
In the end, I was lucky to escape with only the added burden of the thickest religious tract I have ever been given--actually a daily devotional from last year, but, as my driver assured me, "The word of God is eternal." [Disclaimer: I am not actually an immoral, godless heathen, but I also do not appreciate being witnessed to by someone whose job is to convey me from Point A to Point B in the shortest amount of time possible. If that makes me a terrible person, I freely accept that label.]
And, oh, I meant to write a bit about What I Am Reading Right Now. So here's that:
A Feast For Crows! The fact that I am tearing through this book even though I like it so much less than the previous three volumes of the A Song of Ice and Fire series (A Game of Thrones, A Clash of Kings, A Storm of Swords). This is partially due to the fact that this book and the next volume were originally meant to be released as one, but the plot and characters got away from Martin and he decided to separate them geographically. It's a cool idea, but all of my favorite characters were relegated to the fifth volume. Nevertheless, there's a satisfying amount of crazy included in A Feast for Crows by virtue of Martin's decision to allow a character who is very possibly insane to dominate the narrative. I'm purposefully not giving away any plot points because I don't know anymore what is important to the larger narrative and what isn't--so, dear readers (all, what, four of you?), please read this series. Please. I would love to talk about it with you.
But, God, I feel dull tonight, and my thoughts are scattered. More thoughts on the adjustment period later.
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