That Summer day that I recall....

You came into my life

and you gave me hope and l.o.v.e

At this point, all I can do is be patient and stay smiling.

The ladies of the Go Red luncheon at the St. Regis today sent me home before the guests even arrived because there were too many volunteers, so I had a nice day off in Buckhead with a new special person. I read Kitchen, took a nap, got coldstone ice cream, and made an Ikea trip for apartment ideas.

I've got to say, I'm overwhelmed. But I like the practice of making moves in a new direction, any direction.

Peace.

Welcome Baaaccckkkkk

Hello again!

Here we go.....it's Summer 2011, and I am a busy, busy girl. Here are some updates on what I've learned so far:

You need to be 18 to get in the pool during "adult swim." I learned this when the teenage life guard told me to get out for being underaged.

The restaurant business is no place for a sensitive, unconfrontational young woman. About a month into working at Twisted Taco in Dunwoody, whenever someone asked how my job was going my response was, "Just okay so far, but the girl who always makes me cry transferred to another city, so fantastic now!" This is not right. This is not normal. This should not happen.

The Southpark episode "Butters' Bottom Bitch" doesn't get old no matter how many times you watch it. "Hell no, dad. I got lots of girlfriends. Sally's just my bottom bitch. You know what I am saying?"

So what have you noticed in June 2011?

Twenty

I've been twenty for about a month now. I'm getting used to it, and I have to say that while dubious at first of this year, I have come to realize that it is very soothing to be such an even, end-all be-all number. I previously thought that I belonged 19 forever. That's because when you're 19, you're old enough to be taken seriously, professional, sexy, wear high heels to work, dress in yoga pants but put mascara on, adult. But at times, when you need it (for me more times than you might think), you can morph into a little girl and clutch onto the nearest body for stability. Parents and love interests will still bend at your tears or your pouty lip. I've learned to take full advantage of this over the past year, but sadly that time has come to an end.

August

I've learned two things this summer:

1. I do not work well with money-driven franchise restaurant owners. Making money is not my sole reason for doing anything, which is why I will not go into business, finance, or certain types of entrepreneurship. I've thought these industries over, of course, but I've recently realized that they all revolve and function simply for the purpose of making money for themselves. I'm not anti-capitalism in the least, but I don't want a money culture to interfere with my life any more than it absolutely needs to. There are so many more important things in the world, such as feeding it, understanding and accepting its people, and making it a safer place.

2. I will never nanny for people who work from home and/or micromanage EVER AGAIN!!!

That said, I'm wicked excited to move back to New Orleans next Tuesday.

The Nanny

My second day of nannying is not going by as quickly as the first did. 5 hours might not seem like a long workday for some of you full-care child sitters out there, but to spend all of them in the living room with the mother coming up and down the stairs, keeping tabs on your every move, is not the most stress-free way to babysit. Lauren and I retreated to my house to play with my puppy and [in my case] get some much-needed music and writing in. I've realized that my little sister's room is to Lauren a treasure trove of undiscovered delights that keep her occupied and me at minimum exertion. Yay!

The Flaming Lips, James Taylor, and Paolo Nutini are keeping me company while Lauren plays with Allison's play-doh, tries to keep my dog out of the room, and asks me a million questions, the majority of them being, "why?"

It's my fifth day of being home alone. I rather enjoy it. The best part? Getting to play Rachmaninov as loudly as I want at 1am!

Angels

I just got back from El Progreso, Honduras, where I spent a week for my spring break. I went with a friend to visit the Center for street kids, called Los Flores, where she's spent every Summer for the past three years. It was a short trip, but in six days I learned why one of the laziest girls I have met in college thus far (I love her, really! But this girl orders food to eat in her bed, will not walk the one minute it takes to check her mail, and sleeps for hours in the middle of the day) is willing to wake up at 7am and stay outside in 90+ degree weather for up to 12 hours a day with sixty 8- to seventeen-year-old boys who have no attention span whatsoever.

I will admit that on a few occasions, I did fall asleep on concrete steps without warning from sheer exhaustion from long hours and heat (my eating at school hasn't been the best this semester, either; I'm not coping well with the no-meat thing) but at the end of the week, I had tears running down my face because I did not know whether to be grateful to return to the air-conditioned, sedentary (sorta) life of academia or postpone my degree as one volunteer for Los Flores did and return to stay for at least six months of every year.

I live in the richest country in the world but have traveled to some of the poorest. I've seen the world's largest favela in Rio de Janeiro and fed the homeless in Prague and Bogota, but never have I met and hugged and fallen love with the lowest of the low and had to remind myself each and every day of their situations. These are boys whose families are either dead, in jail, or put them on the streets because they couldn't afford to feed them. They all have scars from bullets or knives; some have their initials branded into their chests by gangs. An eleven-year-old has red where the whites of his eyes should be from huffing glue his entire life. Yet they learned my name, became obsessed with my digital camera, made fun of my spanish, and hung all over me all day long, covering me with more physical affection than I have ever experienced in my life.

A part of me is always needing a little bit for someone to touch me. I get confused sometimes and turn cold, as my mother tells me frequently, but inside I am still jittery and something doesn't feel right being far from another body. At Los Flores, for these seven days I have possibly received more affection than I bargained for, but I wouldn't take back one second of it. Though we only knew each other for a short time, the kids enlightened me to what we should ALL show each day: pure joy to see another human being who cares for you and share the warmth that comes from wrapping your arms around that person and CHERISH THEM. I think I miss them so much already because I've never had anyone cherish me and just now realized that the vitality it rewards is more than can be expressed in words.

Burnout*

What happens when your heart is racing, your fingertips are shaking, but your eyelids are heavy and your heart heaves slowly up and down?

What happens when your insides are quivering, your abdomen is tightening, but you ate so much cookie dough out of the cookie dough ice cream that your middle is uncomfortably full and heavy?

Is it unhealthy...? Should I be doing something to end it? I'm tired of the suspension, the constant feeling of anticipation like at any given second I could leap up and GO but then I think....where could I go what could I possibly do? And my sleepy brain protests because it is suffering from an internal neurotic war: furrowed, tense forebrain and a panicking amygdala struggle to hold down my out-of-control medulla...what a mess. It's a scene, it's a scene, it's a scene behind these white walls.

Aiii.

In other news, I have mixed feelings about The Onion. Aren't there enough REAL stories to process already? Do we really need to throw in a slew of completely false ones to mull over, searching for some satiric intelligence? I admit, I do giggle a tiny bit once in awhile for a reason I have not yet been able to explicate. But still..I dislike reading an article someone sends me and having to first consider whether or not it is worth my time or was just pulled out of some Columbia graduate's ass.

Discuss.

...

Oh yeah, and I went to New York!

*Note: the use of the term "burnout" on this blog is not in reference to the well-known popular culture moniker associated with heavy metal, leather, and the 1980s but rather the psychological term popularized by Dr. Herbert Freudenberger (don't laugh. whether it is in a witty, dry way or an immature way, I won't tolerate it) in 1974 and included in the ICD-10 but not currently recognized in the DSM.