The Busy Bee Feels the Sting of Productivity

I got back from Ireland and my Grand Trans-Atlantic Adventure over a month ago and I have only NOW found the time to post something, anything, regardless of how trivial and whiny it may be.

Oh, and this might be a bit whiny.

To briefly recap:

I returned to Chicago on May 30th, full of life, energy and a new mission to improve my lot. By June 15th, my determination was fading amidst the chaos of working full-time at my tedious serving gig and my get-up-and-go seemed to have got-up-and-left.

I miss Ireland. I'm not gonna lie, I ADORE Chicago, and couldn't be happier about being back, but I don't miss the Chicago I knew when I left -- I miss the Chicago I know I could have. I miss the potential. Is that strange? To miss something that doesn't exist yet? Well, if it is, I'm not necessarily bothered by it as much as I'm bothered by the routine I've fallen into since I returned.

Sure, I've been busy, but with what, exactly?

t-minus...

i leave for barcelona in 12 hours. i am a little nervous about traveling. yes, i know how ridiculous that sounds while i'm in Ireland, but it's different when you're leaving FROM a comfort zone like Chicago and when you leave from a place that you only kinda know. luckily, i looked up some fabulous travel blogs and found them all to be highly interesting, though some were not terribly useful to me, as travelling works differently for many folks. some want convenience, some want comfort. some want it to be cheap, and some don't really care.

i'm traveling and have made plans to best of my ability. i love google maps for this reason. how did people manage without the internet?

i guess i'll find out this weekend.

this is my departure post. i will post again when i return.

(crossing) the fault line

The hot water has gone out again. I think it's funny to say that it's 'gone out.' Where did it go? Is it running errands or on a date?

"Have you seen the hot water, dear?"
"No. Not for some time now. I think it went out."
"Did it leave a note?"
"No, but it never does. You know how hot water is."

While I'm busy personifying things, I would also like to mention the Launderette. The name "Launderette" conjures an image of a sweet, petite lady, dressed in a pleasantly starched apron and bonnet. She clucks her tongue at me when I try to put too many clothes in the washing machine and reassures me that powdered detergent will be fine, although I still worry about the dandruff-like flakes that may not wash off.

Sweet as she is, she costs quite a bit for her services. I have to use tokens to do my laundry. It's approximately 5 euro per wash and semi-dry. 7.10 for one wash and two dryer tokens. In U.S. dollars, that's about... $9.00. Yikes.

"It has to be done, dear," she says to me.

And she's right. Since I've been here, I have tried to maintain my personal sense of style while being aware of youthful, Irish fashion. It's tough. I wasn't really prepared for the onslaught of dresses, tights, ballet flats, scarves, and jewelry that dominate a young lady's wardrobe. Despite packing a moderate amount of clothing, I find that I have too many clothes, yet too few options. Is it silly to worry about appearances? Sure, but I always have, and I'm not sure how to stop now. Oh, you didn't know? I'm superficial and a little vain.

So, for the sake of vanity, I do laundry once a week, and this particular week I did something I thought I would never do. I'm so sorry, but I had to use the dryer before they locked the doors.

"It has to be done, dear," Launderette said. She winked at me and clucked her tongue at you for leaving your things in the dryer for FOUR HOURS. I just want to apologize for handling your personal items, and I sincerely hope I don't have to do it again. You had some questionable attire.

Hey, Launderette? I have a few favors to ask of you. Next time you see some hot water, would you tell it to please come home? Thanks. You're great.

The Private Correspondence Between Us: Letter Three

Dear Ireland,

I was touched by your last letter, but why did you have to steal my bank card today? When will we learn to trust each other?

Flabbergasted,
Shama

The Private Correspondence Between Us: Letter Two

Dear Shama,

I am sorry for treating you unfairly. I was trying to be thoughtful when I made it snow here for the first time in years. I thought you missed your home, with all its snow and cold. I won't do that again. As far as your living conditions go, I am also deeply apologetic. I was a little hurt when you arrived and assumed that I was a drunk and uncouth. I suppose I did want to hurt you after I watched you spend your evenings at the pubs instead of with me. I have a lot of history, you know.

Have I been vindictive? Yes. But I'm trying to be better. You have a cozy home now, you have your computer back, and I will try to get that package delivered to you. I am also sorry for all that I've cost you this month. I just assumed you were another rich, ditzy American, looking for a good time.

Let's do start over.

Your friend,
Ireland

The Private Correspondence Between Us: Letter One

Dear Ireland,

Please give me a break. Looking back on this past month, I realize now that we had unrealistic expectations for each other. I wasn't very sensitive to you -- I looked at you and thought, "This is gonna be fun! She looks like she knows how to have a good time!" I know now that I was wrong to make those assumptions. You have much more to offer. I am so sorry.

Can we please start over? I really want us to be friends. I still think we have a good chance if we can start by trusting each other. What do you think? I'm hopeful. Please don't break my heart anymore.

Love,
Shama

ghost story

It is 11:15pm here. It is 5:15pm there. Ireland is beautiful, damp, and green, just like I’ve read. Home is far away, yet being here has made me reevaluate where home is. I feel like a ghost here.

I feel like a specter that has been whisked off by a strong wind. I feel transient, transparent, and unsubstantial. Ireland is beautiful, but I miss Chicago. I felt grounded and solid in Chicago. I suppose I felt too solid there, too comfortable, too settled and stagnant. Ireland will cure that. It has already begun.

From the grumpy airport processing officer who eventually laughed at my terrible jokes to the slew of confused international students to the cheerful University Representative, I felt off my game. Maybe it was the airline food. Maybe it was the 8+ hour-long flight. Maybe it was the concept of leaving home for an extended period of time finally sinking in. It is 11:30pm here, and after making a fairly uneventful trip to the grocery shop I have no idea what to do with myself.

I have no phone, no internet, no friends, and no idea where to procure any of these things. I have an orange bedroom and mixed feelings. I have a massive campus to maneuver and an even bigger country to explore. I have the ability to gain substance through experience, just as I have in Chicago. For tonight, I am a ghost in Ireland.

sleeper hit

It is the night before I leave for my grand, trans-Atlantic adventure and I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep in the way that one can’t sleep when they are very young and worry that a horrid, stinking monster will eat them as soon as they doze off. I can’t sleep in the way that one can’t sleep the night before a big competition. I can’t sleep in the way that I used to not fall asleep the day before school begins.

I can’t sleep.

This is the first entry I’ve written in several months. In those months I have taken giant steps toward finishing my undergraduate degree, learned to knit, made new friends, gotten back in touch with old friends, and plotted out my final semester of school. Of the many events, trials, and encounters, the most exciting thing has been planning for my semester abroad in Limerick, Ireland.

And I can’t sleep.

I can’t sleep in the “Oh dear God, what have I done?” kind of way. I can’t sleep in the sense that my mind won’t stop whirring like a hand mixer, churning up worry, fear, excitement, curiosity, and a pinch of self-loathing to flavor the filling for my Humble Pie. I plan to bite off more than I can chew.

the things that i am do not tell me what i am not.

i am a woman.
i am indian.
i am pakistani.
i am muslim.
i am american.
i am a 'shiksa.'
i am a friend.
i am a daughter.
i am a sister.
i am a lover.
i am an ex-lover.
i am a waitress.
i am a student.
i am a writer.
i am motivated.
i am lazy.
i am uncomfortable.
i am funny.
i am smart.
i am stupid.
i am boring.

there are so many things to say that i am. there also all the unspoken things that i am not. above all, i am frightened to find out what i'm not.

things that frighten me.

school is kicking my ass.

i'm so very close to done, and i'm afraid that i won't meet my deadline and all of my carefully-laid plans will collapse in on itself like a cheap folding chair.

my life is not a cheap folding chair.

Redefining "Between Jobs"

it means going crazy. it doesn't actually mean that you're looking for something else. between jobs is about dancing like a monkey betwixt schedules that are ships in the night. never the twain shall meet. if the two schedule-ships DO meet, then there will be hell to pay. i have too many jobs. i'm always 'between them'. always.

i believe i go from being The Most Employed Person Ever to being The Most Unemployed Person Ever. neither are very good titles to hold.

i'm working at a fancy french restaurant on the weekends. i work across the street at a little middle eastern place, most days. i go to school in the evenings. i write art reviews for Newcity. i barely make enough to get myself where i need to be while affording a home to go to when i need to collapse.

this is wholeheartedly miserable.

Attack of The Panic

ogeez. what have i done? i picked up three assignments with Newcity and still have two articles to finish for Conscious Choice and i got ANOTHER waitressing gig to supplement my income, which, i assure you, is quite meager, AND i start school again in less than two weeks. i'm panicking. yes, indeedy. full on panicking.

i need to keep my head above water, no, i need to be able to walk on water. yes. then turn that water into wine and drink it down, because god knows i need a freakin' drink right now. oh dear.

i will get this done. i will stay awake until it is done. i suspect that i may not sleep for a few weeks.

Horoscopes Are Dumb

My Yahoo! horoscope reads:

The heat is rising in a quarrel you're having -- but the worst is almost over.

I didn't even know I was quarreling with someone! How very strange. I know it's dumb to even bother with my horoscope, but occasionally I will look, just to see what it says. It's usually totally off-base and remarks on facets of my life that don't even exist.

"That special someone in your life has a surprise for you!" Or, "Be careful about your actions at the office today." That last one came up when I was out of work and spending my days at home, chatting with a sock puppet. I hope I didn't upset the puppet.

I suppose I'm looking at the horoscopes more frequently these days because my birthday is coming up, and I still feel like I lack direction in my life. I'm about to get a year older but not necessarily a year wiser. The difference between this year and past years, is that I will be in Chicago. I usually try to take a mini-vacation, get some distance, and sort things out for myself. I guess I'll just have to do that here, this year.

Maybe I'll go see a psychic. They'll know what to do.

Identity Crisis: Part Two

Since I began the new job, I've been doing some thinking. I answer to "Sam" now, but not right away. I sign emails to clients as "Sam". I get introduced to coworkers and clients as "Sam", and I have to remind myself that "Sam" is who I am in this position, which I'm not really qualified for, but that's a whole different mess.

I've had a few discussions with friends and family on the subject and have been hearing a lot of different responses:
- This is a funny situation to be in.
- I'll get used to the new name.
- I was smart to change it, for employment purposes.

All of those things are true, but I just don't know how I feel about it. I'm not upset or happy, either way. It's just a new change, and one I only partially thought through. My brother recently posted a journal entry that touched down on some of the issues I'm grappling with. Whereas he chose the route of assimilation, a path that I frequently wished I'd walked, I ultimately embraced my image as an Asian-American, and chose to cultivate my own credo on the subject. I don't regret it, nor do I envy or judge his choices anymore. But now, I find that I AM assimilating in one of the most fundamental ways. I changed my NAME. If only I could blame it on Ellis Island.

I've grown accustomed to living in a hyphenated world, but this is something entirely different. There isn't an equal splitting of values, where each entity maintains individual significance. This is a manufactured sense of self. It's not a "short" version of my name, and it's not even a nickname, because as we all learned from Sports Night (and how I wish I could have found a clip of that episode!), "you can't give YOURSELF a nickname."

The largest issue at hand is the choice I have to make. Do I continue being "Sam" in the professional world or not? It might not seem like a big deal, but if I look to the future, "Sam" may end up on a slippery slope and there's no way of going back. Or I might just end up with a split personality.

Identity Crisis

Update: I'm still unemployed.

It's strange to think that I'm so thoroughly unmarketable, and all the spare time not working has left me with PLENTY of time to contemplate WHY I'm still unemployed. Among the myriad of reasons (I don't have enough experience, knowledge, time, education, etc.) I began to wonder if I wasn't getting any responses because of my name.

I know this might sound silly to those who know me, but I wonder if I'm not getting any interviews because employers don't know how to pronounce my name. It's not a difficult name, but it is also one that is easy to mispronounce. Nearly a year ago, I had a conversation with a friend who has a difficult name. He told me that once he changed it to something simpler, something more conventional, he started to get interviews. At the time, I thought it was absurd.

I don't think that anymore.

I'm changing my name. Nothing drastic or permanent, but I am changing it to something more conventional. I don't know if it's going to help, but at this point, I'm willing to give it a shot. I'm trying to look at this shift as an 'experiment' of sorts. I have a hypothesis, a method and it will be easy enough to analyze the results, I'm just not sure how I'm going to gauge the success of such an experiment.

If changing my name does indeed work, then I will find employment and a whole new level of disappointment. If it doesn't work, then I'm just going to have to start selling fruit on the streets. Fresh lemons anyone?

one, two, three for the money

i need a job. i need a job so badly right now. the first of the month has come and gone, and so has the last of my cash. damn rent. i did my taxes the other night, hoping that my return would be enough to sustain me for a short while. my wallet has flies coming out of it. just like in the cartoons.

i'm tempted to go back to waitressing, but i think i might kill myself if i did that again. what happened to my useful skills? why won't anyone hire me to do something AND pay me for it? ugh. frustrated. worried.

the best way to talk without being interrupted

writing. these days, i'm always writing. whether i'm writing for classes, writing for work, writing to loved ones or writing for myself, i'm ALWAYS writing. i'm at my happiest and most frustrated when i'm writing.

so, here i sit, happily frustrated. or maybe frustratedly happy.

when it comes to the process of writing, i understand that it works differently for everyone. some people spend a good deal of time researching a topic, forming an outline, stringing together separate thoughts to form a whole piece. i have friends that simply follow their thoughts like a bread crumb trail until they reach a final conclusive and delectable sandwich of thoughts. there are plenty of other writing rituals, i'm sure, but i still haven't figured out my OWN process and i find that disconcerting.

as far as i know, i just sit at my computer and silently swear at it for a while.

do musicians feel this way? painters? anyone who has a job that requires creativity MUST curse their tools every now and then, i suppose. sometimes, i miss doing theater. i miss being told exactly what to do and say, how to act, what emotions to project and the satisfaction of being a small part of something larger. i envy my theater friends and the community they're a part of. i love watching a show, the camaraderie between performers and their audience. so, why didn't i pursue theater? i think it's because i wanted to take responsibility for my own actions, thoughts and words.

i've spent a good deal of my life blaming circumstances for my shortcomings, which are many. i've been involved in relationships where i could say, "We both screwed it up." i've been in wildly unsuccessful plays where blame gets distributed to actors, tech and audience. of course it isn't healthy to shoulder blame alone, but it also isn't healthy to avoid accountability. writing makes me accountable. frustrated and happy, but accountable. i know i'll look back at this entry and say, "Wow, did that post suck. What the hell was I rambling on about, anyways?" but, i'll look back on it and know that it's MY piece of crap.

writing is lonely, but there's a certain joy in solitude.

working for peanuts

work? oh, i forgot to tell you. i got a job, but it doesn't pay me. at least, not with money. i get paid in gratitude.
not from them. i'm the grateful one. i'm grateful for the chance to prove that i CAN, in fact, be a productive member of society.

which is, of course, why i'm posting this entry instead of doing the work i need to be doing.

so, when i actually am being productive, it's in an office, where i write for a magazine. that's as detailed as i'm going to get, for now. i'm still slightly afraid that they're going to find out that i'm a talentless hack and have no business in theirs. i'm also afraid that they're going to call my friends and family and everyone i've ever met and invite them to publicly ridicule me while i get fired from my non-paying job in a painfully embarassing way, possibly involving a giant letter "F" painted on my shirt in wite-out. the "F" is for fraud.

it's a slightly different version of a recurring nightmare, but that's for my therapist, not the blogosphere. unless someone would care to discuss it with me for free, that is. i am, after all, working for peanuts and pencil shavings, and who doesn't love peanuts?
oh yes, and gratitude. i'm working for gratitude, and despite my fears, i am very grateful.

i'm at work. i suppose i ought to do some.

who are you callin' cold turkey, huh?

quitting smoking again. again. as in, for the millionth time. this time, it's gonna stick. i'm quitting all my addictions. this week. i think it'll go well. why can't there be cigarette vending machines on the street? i think twenty cancer sticks are just too much. i get a pack, and i'll smoke them all. if i could just go buy ONE, whenever i feel like i'm about to kill someone, that'd be awesome.

quitting "cold turkey" sucks. that phrase sucks, too. it ought to be called, "quitting patience and the ability to be civil." that'd be more accurate.

on the plus side, i totally had a dream about a young christian slater last night. we went out for ice cream. it was nice.

try, try as i might.

i can't play my guitar. i desperately want to, and i practice everyday, but damnit, i just can't seem to string together the chords i know into something pretty or coherent. if music were food, i'd be making a souffle out of turds. turd souffle. and it wouldn't even rise. gah.

okay, i think my fingertips have stopped tingling. here i go again.